RoxvA  Good   flrtfel 

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Roxy's  Good  Angel 


and 


Other  New  England  Tales 


By 

Eva    Beede    Odell 


CONCORD,  N.   H. 

THE   RUMFORD   PRINTING   Co. 
i  908 


Copyright,  1908 
By    EVA    BEEDE    ODELL 


TO 


THE  MEMORY  OF 


MY  MOTHER 


CAROLINE    FRANCES    BEEDE 


THIS    VOLUME 


IS   AFFECTIONATELY   DEDICATED 


CONTENTS 


Roxy's  Good  Angel  .....        7 

Silas  Mason's  Will   ......      29 

Caught  in  a  Cyclone          .  .  .  .  -45 

Their  Other  Mother 61 

Nathan's  Wife 81 

Miss  Harden's  Christmas  Party  .          .          -103 


I. 


ROXY'S  GOOD  ANGEL. 

' '  If  you  've  got  tew  a  spot  where  you  c  'n  leave 
off,  mebbe  you'd  best  come  out  an'  fry  the  nut 
cakes  fer  me,  a-standin'  over  the  hot  fat  fetches 
out  my  'umor  so.  The  stuff  that  root  an'  yarb 
doctor  fixed  up  fer  me  's  a-helpin'  of  me,  but 
he  said  I'd  hev  ter  be  dretful  keerful  'bout 
gittin'  my  blood  het,"  said  Mrs.  Kent,  as  she 
put  her  head  into  the  "west  room,"  where  her 
daughter,  Roxana,  was  carefully  placing  the 
braided  mats  on  the  cleanly  swept  rag  carpet. 
"That  hooked-in  rug's  a  beauty!  I'm  glad  you 
put  it  before  the  table  where  't  won't  git  trod 
on  much,"  continued  Mrs.  Kent,  as  she  looked 
admiringly  at  a  rug  upon  which  blossomed  a 
bouquet  of  flowers  which  it  would  have  puzzled 
a  botanist  to  classify.  "Did  David  notice  your 
new  rug  last  Sunday  night,  Roxy  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  he  said  't  I  beat  natur'  on  posies,"  was 
the  reply. 

It  was  a  balmy  Saturday  morning  in  the  last 
of  May.  The  scent  of  the  lilacs  and  the  songs 


8  Roxy's   Good  Angel. 

of  the  robins  floated  in  through  the  open  win 
dows,  the  old  maples  in  front  of  the  house  gently 
waved  their  tender  leaves  over  the  low  roof  and 
dandelions  spangled  with  gold  the  new  green 
grass  in  the  dooryard. 

' '  When  I  can  read  my  title  clear, ' ' 

Roxy  's  sweet  voice  sang,  as  she  briskly  swept  off 
the  door-rock,  on  either  side  of  which  the  great 
red  peonies  were  in  bloom;  then  she  went  in  to 
fry  the  doughnuts. 

' '  Guess  I  '11  bake  a  couple  o '  dried  apple  pies, 
you  pa  loves  'em  so,"  remarked  Mrs.  Kent,  as 
she  came  out  of  the  buttery  with  her  palms 
covered  with  great  rings  of  dough,  which  she 
dropped  into  the  hot,  sputtering  fat  and  watched 
them  as  they  struggled  to  the  surface.  ' '  Soon 's 
you  git  through  here,  Roxy,"  she  continued, 
"hadn't  you  better  break  off  some  o'  the  lay- 
locks  and  pinies  and  make  a  bokay  to  set  on  the 
mantel  piece  ?  Them  pine  boughs  doos  look  nice 
in  the  fireplace.  Then,  bime-bye,  you  might  run 
down  in  the  garden  an'  see  'f  there  hain't  some 
rubub  big  enough  t'  cut,  so's't  I  c'd  stew  a  leetle 
fer  sass.  Mis'  B'ynton  says  she's  dretful  fond 
on't,  but  they  hain't  got  no  pie-plant  'cause  he 
don't  like  it.  I  shouldn't  'a'  asked  Mis'  B'yn 
ton  over  Saturday,  when  I  had  so  much  to  do,' 


Roxy's   Good   Angel.  9 

only  the  skulemarm  goes  home  Friday  nights, 
an '  I  wa  'n  't  under  no  obligations  to  ask  her. ' ' 

Roxana  Kent  was  the  only  child  of  Seth  and 
Hannah  Kent.  Seth  was  born  in  this  little  red 
house,  and  here  he  had  always  lived,  on  the 
"Neck  Road,"  as  it  was  called,  for  that  part  of 
the  town  stretched  out  into  the  great  lake.  Jon 
athan  Kent,  the  father  of  Seth,  had  built  the 
house,  and,  as  Richard,  the  otner  son,  had  gone 
to  seek  his  fortune  in  the  West  several  years 
ago,  Seth  had  been  the  one  to  live  at  home  and 
take  care  of  the  old  folks  and  at  their  death  he 
had  inherited  the  homestead. 

On  the  adjoining  farm  lived  Stephen  Allen, 
who  was  the  most  forehanded  of  all  the  farmers 
on  the  Neck  Road.  His  house  was  painted 
white,  except  the  back  side,  which  was  a  durable 
red,  as  was  the  custom.  He  rode  in  a  chaise, 
and  his  wife  had  a  haircloth  sofa  in  the  fore- 
room  and  a  black  silk  gown  hanging  in  the  spare 
room  clothes-press. 

The  Aliens  had  only  one  child  living,  but  three 
little  white  marble  stones  were  noticeable  among 
the  blue  slate  ones  in  the  burying-ground  near 
the  schoolhouse,  and  here  in  a  row  were  the 
three  little  Aliens,  who  had  died  of  the  scarlet 
fever. 

Mrs.  Allen  had  great  ambitions  for  her  only 


10  Roxy's   Good  Angel. 

son,  David.  He  was  sent  out  to  the  village  to 
the  tuition  school  when  he  had  "got  beyend  the 
deestrict  skule"  on  the  Neck,  but  he  came  home 
Friday  nights  to  remain  until  Monday  morning, 
and  always  went  over  to  spend  his  Sunday  even 
ings  with  Roxy.  They  had  cared  for  each  other 
since  they  were  children,  David  bringing  big  red 
apples  to  school  for  Roxy  to  eat  at  recess,  and 
Roxy  always  sliding  on  David's  sled.  In  sum 
mer  he  took  her  in  his  boat  to  gather  pond- 
lilies  and  in  winter  they  skated  together.  He 
was  always  "her  company"  at  the  Fourth  of 
July  picnics  and  at  the  husking-bees ;  he  saw  her 
home  from  singing-school  and  from  prayer- 
meeting,  and  he  nearly  died  of  jealousy  the  week 
when  her  cousin  Will  was  on  from  the  West. 

It  was  now  more  than  three  years  that  David 
had  been  "payin'  attention"  to  Roxy,  going  to 
"set  up  with  her  reg'lar"  every  Sunday  night. 
Still,  there  seemed  to  be  no  prospect  of  a  wed 
ding  in  the  neighborhood.  David  was  now  al 
most  twenty-three  and  Roxy  a  few  months 
younger.  The  old  women  said,  "David's  dret- 
ful  slow,  jes'  like  his  uncle  Reuben,  fer  he 
courted  Maria  Jane  Smith  goin'  on  ten  year; 
then  she  got  tired  o'  waitin'  an'  up  an'  married 
Lem  Bartlett,  an'  then  Reuben  he  spunked  up 
an'  took  Luke  Foster's  widder." 


Roxy's   Good   Angel.  11 

Meanwhile  Roxy  was  making  rugs  and  patch 
work  quilts,  and  getting  her  things  ready.  She 
also  braided  hats,  and  with  the  money  thus 
earned  bought  clothes,  besides  laying  away,  care 
fully  tied  up  in  a  white  cotton  stocking,  a  sum 
sufficient  to  purchase  enough  green  silk  for  a 
wadding  gown.  Still  the  time  went  on,  and 
David  didn't  say  the  word. 

The  ' '  skulemarm, ' '  a  pretty  little  blonde  from 
the  village,  boarded  at  Caleb  Boynton 's  and  only 
the  night  before  last  she  had  been  invited  to  sup 
per  at  the  Aliens.  Although  she  had  gone  home 
alone,  before  dark  (Roxy  knew  because  her  black 
eyes  had  been  watching  from  the  bedroom  win 
dow),  the  Kents  feared  that  Mrs.  Allen  was  as 
piring  for  a  village  girl  for  her  son,  so  Mrs. 
Kent  had  invited  Mrs.  Boynton  over  for  the 
purpose  of  finding  out  what  she  could  about  the 
"skulemarm." 

Mrs.  Boynton  appeared  promptly  at  two 
o'clock,  in  a  clean,  starched  gingham,  knitting- 
work  in  hand.  She  was  ' '  f ootin '  down  a  pair  o ' 
stockin's  fer  Calup,"  she  remarked.  Mrs.  Kent, 
who  had  put  on  a  new  purple  print,  got  out 
her  knitting,  too,  and  tongues  and  needles  flew 
fast.  Soon  Roxy  came  in,  radiant  in  a  pink  cal 
ico  and  a  white  apron.  She  was  knitting  edg 
ing.  Mrs.  Boynton  admired  the  pattern  and  told 


12  Roxy's   Good  Angel. 

her  about  some  "hansum"  lace  that  the 
"skulemarm  was  a-knittin'  of,  fer  piller  cases," 
and  went  on  to  describe  the  log-cabin  and  the 
Job 's  trouble  quilts  that  she  was  ' '  a-piecin '  up, ' ' 
adding,  "Law  sakes,  she's  up  soon's  light  a- 
workin '  on  'em ! ' ' 

"What's  she  so  driv  fer?  Goin'  ter  git  mar 
ried?"  asked  Mrs.  Kent. 

"Yes,  'fore  a  great  while,  I  guess,  but  she 
told  me  in  confidence,  so  don't  say  nothin'  'bout 
it.  I  wouldn't  hev  it  come  from  me  fer  the 
world,  but  she's  a-keepin'  skule  ter  git  money 
ter  buy  her  a  silk  gownd.  She's  a-goin'  ter  hev 
sky  blue,  an'  I  tell  her  she'll  look  jest  as  pretty 
as  a  pictur'  in  it,  she's  so  light-complected.  The 
feller  she's  a-goin'  to  marry 's  a  minister,  so  she 
says  she  dunno's  she'll  ever  git  another  silk 
gownd.  She  met  with  him  over  t'  the  'cademy 
t'  the  Bridge,  where  she  went  ter  git  her  ede- 
cashun.  He  hain  't  got  quite  through  his  skulin ' 
but  they  hain 't  a-goin '  ter  wait.  There,  I  prom 
ised  not  ter  tell,  so  don't  you  breathe  a  word 
on't  ter  no  livin'  soul." 

Roxy  and  her  mother  willingly  pledged  them 
selves  to  keep  the  secret,  for  a  great  burden  had 
been  lifted  from  their  hearts.  Evidently  "the 
skulemarm  wrasn't  a-settin'  of  her  cap"  for 
David. 


Roxy's   Good  Angel.  13 

Mrs.  Kent  took  out  some  of  her  warm  brown 
bread  and  beans  for  supper,  leaving  the  rest 
in  the  brick  oven  for  the  Sunday  morning  break 
fast.  "I  do  declare/'  said  Mrs.  Boynton,  pass 
ing  up  her  plate  for  more,  ' '  I  believe  them  beans 
is  the  best  I  ever  eat.  I  wish  lie  (meaning  her 
husband)  had  some.  He  told  me  to  say  to  you 
that  he  was  much  obleeged  fer  your  invite  to 
supper,  but  he  was  so  driv  with  his  plantin'  that 
he  couldn't  stop  ter  shift  his  clo'es  and  come. 
I  b  'iled  a  big  mess  o '  dandelion  greens  fer  dinner 
so 's  ter  hev  some  left  over,  so  I  guess  he  '11  make 
out  a  supper,  for  he  loves  cold  greens  awful 
well." 

Mrs.  Kent  loaded  Mrs.  Boynton 's  plate  with 
the  rhubarb  sauce,  remarking,  "They  say  they 
have  sass  dishes  out  ter  the  village.  I  s'pose  you 
git  all  the  styles  from  the  skulemarm,  don 't  ye  ?  " 

"Anyhow,"  responded  Mrs.  Boynton,  "I 
don't  believe  there's  anybody  t'  the  village  can 
hold  a  candle  ter  you  on  nut  cakes.  I  must  get 
your  resate." 

Very  soon  after  supper,  Seth,  who  was  a 
quiet  man  and  had  taken  but  little  part  in  the 
conversation,  picked  up  his  milking  pails  and 
started  for  the  cow-yard,  while  Roxy  cleared 
the  table  and  washed  the  dishes.  The  old  clock 
in  the  kitchen  struck  seven  and  Mrs.  Boynton 


14  Roxy's   Good  Angel. 

rolled  up  her  knitting- work,  remarking,  ' '  I  guess 
I'd  best  be  goin'  'long.  Calup  '11  be  a-lookin' 
fer  me." 

"I'll  go  a  piece  with  ye,"  said  Mrs.  Kent, 
putting  on  her  cape-bonnet. 

They  walked  together  to  the  turn  of  the  road 
and  there  they  parted,  Mrs.  Boynton  assuring 
Mrs.  Kent  that  "her  vittles  did  taste  so  good," 
and  Mrs.  Kent  in  response  saying,  "Now  dew  be 
neighborly  an'  run  over  often,  fer  ye  hain't  no 
idee  how  much  good  yer  visit  's  done  me." 


II. 

The  lilacs  had  faded  and  the  great  peonies 
had  shed  their  crimson  petals.  The  yellow  dan 
delions  had  been  transformed  into  balls  of  dainty 
lacework  that  had  dropped  apart  and  in  in 
numerable  fairy  shafts  had  sped  away  on  the 
wings  of  the  wind.  The  tender  green  of  spring 
had  deepened  into  the  thick  shade  of  summer. 
Haying-time  had  come,  when  the  tall  timothy, 
the  graceful  red-top  and  the  fragrant  clover 
were  stowed  away  in  the  great  barns.  The  crops 
had  ripened  and  been  harvested  all  along  the 
Neck  Road.  The  women-folks  had  strung  all  the 
apples  that  were  worth  stringing,  and  those  that 


Roxy's   Good  Angel.  15 

were  good  for  nothing  else  had  been  made  into 
cider. 

It  was  now  December,  the  fall  work  was  done 
and  the  men-folks  were  "a-choppin'  "  in  the 
woods,  in  order  that  they  might  build  up  the 
family  wood-pile,  or  draw  "a  few  cords  ter  the 
village,  soon  's  it  come  good  sleddin'."  Mean 
while  the  women  were  devoting  all  their  spare 
time  to  knitting  "sale  foot'n's." 

One  mild  day  as  the  Boyntons  were  partaking 
of  a  good  old-fashioned  "bile  dinner,"  and  Ca 
leb  was  just  helping  himself  to  some  more  of 
the  cabbage,  and  the  turnips,  and  the  beets,  re 
marking,  "I  declar',  Nancy,  I'll  bet  there  hain't 
a  woman  on  t'  the  road  't  can  come  up  ter  you 
fer  b'ilin'  garden  sass, "  Mrs.  Boynton  suddenly 
changed  the  subject  by  asking,  "Be  you  a-goin' 
ter  be  off  ter  th'  wood-lot  all  the  arternune?" 
Caleb  nodding  assent,  she  continued,  ' '  'Cause  'f 
you  be,  I'm  a-goin'  over  t'  the  Kentses.  I  hain't 
be'n  over  there  'n  a  dog's  age  an'  I'd  oughter 
go  over  'n  tell  'em  'bout  the  weddin'.  Pore 
Roxy,  I  sh'd  think  she'd  be  clean  discouraged, 
an'  'f  David  Allen's  ever  a-goin'  ter  marry  her, 
why  under  the  canopy  don't  he  do  it?  I  never 
see  nobody  so  slow  'bout  their  courtin'  in  my 
born  days." 

As  soon  as  she  got  the  dishes  "done  up,"  the 


16  Roxy's    Good   Angel. 

stove  "wiped  down,"  and  the  kitchen  "swept 
out,"  Mrs.  Boynton  put  on  a  green  and  black- 
checked,  home-made,  woolen  gown  (she  had  spun 
and  woven  it  herself,  and  "kep'  it  fer  hansum" 
six  years  but  was  now  taking  it  for  second- 
best),  a  heavy  red  and  green  changeable  shawl 
and  a  big,  brown  silk,  pumpkin  hood.  Then, 
dropping  her  knitting-work  into  her  capacious 
pocket,  she  set  out  for  the  Kents'. 

It  was  not  the  custom  for  neighbors  to  knock 
at  each  other's  doors,  so  Mrs.  Boynton  walked 
right  into  the  kitchen,  where  sat  Mrs.  Kent  and 
Roxy.  "Howd'do?  I 'm  so  snow-blind  I  can 't 
hardly  tell  which  from  t'  other,"  said  she.  "I'm 
wropped  up  's  if  I  's  goin'  ter  ride  ter  th' 
Bridge."  Then,  rolling  up  her  heavy  mittens 
and  putting  her  socks  behind  the  stove,  while 
Roxy  hung  up  her  shawl  and  hood  and  Mrs.  Kent 
brought  forward  a  big  rocking-chair,  she  took 
out  her  work  and  settled  herself.  "What  be 
you  a-drivin'  at  now,  knittin',  I  s'pose,  same  's 
I  be?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Kent,  "me  an'  Roxy's 
stented  ourselves  to  git  a  derzern  pair  o'  foot'n's 
done  'g'inst  father  goes  out  ter  the  village  ag'in, 
but  we're  dretful  glad  you've  come  over  ter 
set  a  spell.  Comfortable  weather  fer  the  time 
o'year,  hain't  it?" 


Roxy's   Good  Angel.  17 

"Yes,  but  't  was  dretful  teedyus  last  week. 
I  sh'd  a  be'n  over  sooner  'f  it  hadn't  be'n  so 
cold.  I  wanted  to  tell  ye  'bout  our  goin'  out 
ter  the  village  to  eat  Thanksgivin'  dinner,"  said 
Mrs.  Boynton,  as  they  all  drew  up  around  the 
fire. 

"For  the  land's  sake,  Mis'  B'ynton,  I  didn't 
know  's  none  o'  your  folks  lived  out  ter  the 
village,  nor  his'n  nuther!" 

"Wall,  they  don't,"  continued  the  speaker, 
"but  me  and  Calup  had  a  invite  out  ter  the 
weddin'." 

' '  The  weddin ' ! "  exclaimed  both  listeners  in  a 
breath. 

"Yes,"  explained  Mrs.  Boynton.  "Don't  you 
rec'lect  Almiry  Folsom,  she  that  boarded  'long 
o'  me  an'  kep'  our  skule  last  summer?" 

"Land,  yes,  father  was  a-tellin'  on't  when 
he  come  home  from  the  store  t'other  night.  He 
heerd  she  was  married  in  the  meetin '-house  on 
Thanksgivin'  day.  An'  you's  there  an'  see  it 
all.  How  you  talk!  Dew  tell  us  all  about  it!" 
eagerly  exclaimed  Mrs.  Kent,  while  Roxy  stopped 
knitting  to  listen. 

"Wall,  in  the  fust  place,"  began  Mrs.  Boyn 
ton,  "Almiry  an'  her  feller,  they  come  in  kind 
o'  latish  an'  set  down  nigh  the  door.  I  guess 
folks  had  got  wind  on't  round,  what  was  a-goin' 
2 


18  Roxy's   Good  Angel. 

on,  leastways  they  suspicioned  it,  f  er  the  meetin  '- 
house  was  pretty  well  filled  up.  Elder  Price, 
he  preached  a  powerful  sermon,  jest  an  hour 
an '  twenty-five  minutes  long  't  was,  f  er  Mr.  Tay 
lor  told  me  he  took  out  his  time-piece  an'  looked. 
Like  enough  he  was  a  leetle  narvous  an'  the  time 
seemed  long.  Then,  when  the  elder  had  got 
through,  'stid  o'  pronouncin'  the  bendiction  's 
usual,  says  he,  'The  congregation  's  requested  to 
tarry  a  spell.'  Then  he  called  fer  Richard  Tay 
lor  an'  Almiry  Folsom  to  come  forrard  to  the 
altar,  so  they  stood  up  there  an'  was  married 
right  in  the  meetin '-house,  afore  the  hull  on  us." 

' '  What  was  she  married  in  ? "  put  in  Roxy. 

"Her  blue  silk  gownd  o'  course,  an'  a  blue 
silk  bunnit  with  a  wrhite  feather  an '  white  strings 
an'  she  wore  white  kid  gloves.  Dick,  as  she 
calls  him,  he  's  considerable  dark-complected, 
but  Almiry,  you  know,  she's  jest  pink  an'  white, 
an'  everybody  sed  they  was  the  prettiest  couple 
that  they  ever  set  eyes  on." 

"Then  you's  ter  the  dinner!  Who  else  'd 
they  have?"  asked  Mrs.  Kent. 

"Bein'  's  there  hain't  none  o'  his  folks  livin', 
'cept  his  Aunt  Harriet,  an'  she's  a  missionary  off 
in  Chiny,  the  Folsomses  thought  they  wouldn't 
send  down  below  fer  none  o'  their  kin  to  come 
up,  but  Almiry,  she'd  set  her  heart  on  havin'  me 


Roxy's   Good   Angel.  19 

an'  Calup,  so  they  jest  asked  us  an'  the  min 
ister's  folks.  They  fetched  all  three  o'  the 
young  uns,  o'  course,  they  hadn't  nobody  t' 
leave  'em  with,  an'  they  acted  like  all  possessed. 
They  say  she  hain't  no  kind  of  a  housekeeper, 
that  she  sets  right  down  in  the  mornin'  a-writin' 
poetry  'fore  ever  she's  combed  her  head,  an' 
the  young  uns  goes  a-traipsin'  over  her.  She 
writ  a  piece  on  '  The  Bride '  an '  gin  it  to  Almiry 
to  remember  her  by." 

' '  Dear  me  suz ! ' '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Kent.  ' '  Now 
dew  tell  us  what  ye  hed  ter  eat. ' ' 

"Why,  we  hed  chicken  pie,  an  b'iled  onions, 
an'  cranberry  sass — 

' '  In  sass  dishes  ? ' '  interrupted  Mrs.  Kent. 

' '  Law,  yes, ' '  was  the  answer,  ' '  't  was  took  out 
in  leetle  glass  dishes  an'  sot  round  to  each 
plate.  Then  there  was  apple  pie  an'  punkin  pie 
an'  plum  puddin'." 

"Most  proberble  the  Folsomses  is  middlin' 
well  off,"  said  Mrs.  Kent. 

"I  don't  cal'late  they  be  remarkerble  fore 
handed.  He's  a  cooper  by  trade,  but  he's 
hauled  up  with  the  rheumatiz  a  good  deal,  so, 
says  I  ter  Calup,  says  I,  'We  hain't  a-goin'  out 
there  empty-handed, '  so  we  put  in  ter  the  wagon 
one  o'  them  great  punkins  o'  ourn,  and  a  leetle 
crock  o'  my  b'iled  cider  apple-sass,  an'  a  couple 


20  Roxy's   Good  Angel. 

string  o'  sassages.  Then  I'd  knit  Almiry  a  ban- 
sum  pair  o'  white  cotton  stockin's,  the  front  on 
'em  was  all  in  shells,  an'  she  was  'mazin'  tickled 
with  'em.  She  said  sh'd  never  want  ter  wear 
'em  out,  but  keep  'em  t'  look  on  's  long's  she 
lived." 

There  was  a  moment's  lull  in  the  conversa 
tion,  then  Mrs.  Boynton,  changing  the  subject, 
continued,  ' '  S  'pose  you  know  'd  't  Elder  Zebulon 
Whittlesey,  from  over  t'other  side  o'  Long  Pond, 
was  a-comin'  here  ter  hold  pertractid  meetin', 
didn't  ye?" 

"No,"  was  the  reply,  "we  hadn't  heerd  on  't. 
When  do  they  begin,  an'  where 's  the  elder  a- 
goin '  ter  put  up  ? " 

"They'll  make  it  their  headquarters  over  ter 
Joel  Weekses,  the  elder's  fust  wife  was  a  cousin 
o'  Mis'  Weekses,  you  rec'lect.  He's  a-goin'  ter 
fetch  his  fam'ly,  an'  I  s'pose  folks  '11  be  ex 
pected  t'  invite  'em  round  ter  spend  the  day. 
Joel  was  over  yisterday  an'  he  said  the  meetin 's 
would  begin  next  Sunday  night  't  early  candle 
light,  an'  he  wanted  that  we  sh'd  git  th'  word 
round.  Them  that's  heerd  her  says  Mis'  Whit- 
tlesy's  dretful  giftid  an'  makes  a  butyful  ex- 
ertashun.  There!  the  sun's  a-goin'  down  behind 
Blueb'ry  Hill.  I  never  did  see  how  short  the 
days  be.  I  must  be  goin'  'long.  Dew  come  over 


Roxy's   Good  Angel.  21 

now,  won't  ye,  both  on  ye.     'Pears  to  me  you're 
lookin'  kind  o'  peaked,  hain't  ye,  Roxy?" 

But  Roxy  blushingly  denied  the  charge,  as  she 
helped  Mrs.  Boynton  on  with  her  hood  and  shawl 
and  soon  the  good  woman  was  trudging  toward 
home  in  the  twilight,  saying  to  herself  that  she 
didn't  know  when  she'd  enjoyed  "an  arter- 
nune"  so  much  as  she  had  that  one. 

III. 

The  next  Sunday  night  was  clear  and  frosty ; 
the  stars  twinkled  in  the  steely  blue  sky,  and  the 
snow  sparkled  in  the  moonbeams.  People  were 
wending  their  way  toward  the  little  old  meet 
ing-house  on  the  hilltop,  stopping  now  and  then 
at  the  sound  of  bells,  and  stepping  aside  for  the 
high-backed  sleighs  to  glide  past. 

David  had  called,  as  usual,  for  Roxy  and  to 
gether  they  climbed  the  hill,  but  were  obliged 
to  separate  on  reaching  the  meeting-house,  Roxy 
going  in  at  the  door  on  the  right,  as  that  was 
the  women's  side,  and  David  entering  at  the 
men's  door  on  the  left.  This  unpretending 
structure  was  unpainted  outside  and  inside,  the 
benches  had  straight  backs  and  hard,  uncush- 
ioned  seats.  At  the  farther  end  of  the  room  was 
the  great  desk,  at  the  left  of  which  was  the 


22  Roxy's   Good  Angel. 

amen  corner,  where  Uncle  'Liphe  Bennett  always 
sat,  with  his  chin  resting  on  his  hands,  which 
were  clasped  over  the  top  of  his  cane,  inspiring 
the  preacher  with  his  frequent  responses. 

The  house  was  filled,  even  to  the  back  seats  by 
the  two  great  stoves,  where  the  small  boys  were 
accustomed  to  sit,  and,  during  the  sermons, 
never  less  than  an  hour  in  length,  exercise  their 
skill  in  wood-carving. 

Presently  Elder  Zebulon  Whittlesey,  or  Elder 
Zeb,  as  he  was  familiarly  called,  entered,  hastily 
threw  off  his  buffalo  coat  and  took  his  place  in 
the  desk,  on  either  side  of  which  sputtered  a  tall 
candle  in  a  brass  candlestick.  Other  candles 
were  placed  in  the  windows,  their  flickering  light 
shining  on  the  small  seven-by-nine  panes  and 
casting  weird  shadows  upon  the  congregation. 
These  candles  were  not  honored  with  candle 
sticks.  After  they  were  lighted  they  were  held 
with  the  flame  downward  until  little  pools  of 
melted  tallow  had  formed  on  the  window  sills 
and  in  these  the  candles  stood. 

The  minister  lined  the  hymn  and  the  people 
sung  as  he  read,  two  lines  at  a  time. 

"Now  in  the  heat  of  youthful  blood, 
Remember  you  Creator,  God." 

The  sermon  was  on  the  terrors  of  the  approach- 


Roxy's   Good  Angel.  23 

ing  judgment  day.  "The  time  draweth  nigh," 
said  the  preacher.  "When  Gabriel  sounds  his 
trumpet,  what  will  you  do,  my  friends — ah  ?  If 
you've  got  any  variences,  now's  the  time  to  set 
tle  'em — ah.  Brother  Abner  an'  Brother  Noah, 
be  you  a-goin'  to  let  a  little  strip  o'  old  swamp 
land — ah — keep  you  out  o'  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven— ah?" 

As  he  warmed  up  with  his  subject,  he  took 
off  his  coat  and  finally  his  vest.  He  pounded  the 
big  Bible  until  the  old  desk  shook;  then  he 
walked  up  and  down  the  platform,  wiping  his 
face  with  a  big  silk  bandana.  Aunt  Hitty  Green, 
speaking  of  it  afterwards,  said,  "He  sweat  like 
a  butcher,"  and  Timothy  Skinner,  who  was 
"deef  's  an  adder,"  and  always  sat  in  the 
"amen  corner"  with  his  hand  curved  behind 
his  left  ear,  said,  "Elder  Zeb,  he  jes'  put  in 
the  dead  licks  that  night  'f  ever  a  man  did ! ' ' 

The  old  meeting-house  rang  with  the  voice  of 
his  warning;  then  it  was  so  still  that  one  could 
have  heard  the  dropping  of  a  pin  and  the  more 
timid  ones  trembled,  as  if  expecting  to  hear  the 
blast  of  doom  rend  the  cold,  clear  sky. 

The  sermon  was  nearly  two  hours  long,  and 
was  followed  by  a  prayer-meeting,  when  the  in 
vitation  was  given  and  many  crowded  forward 
to  the  "mourner's  bench,"  so  it  was  about  half 


24  Roxy's    Good  Angel. 

past  ten  o'clock  when  the  people  left  the  old 
meeting-house. 

David  walked  along  silently  by  Roxy's  side, 
and,  as  his  custom  was,  went  in  to  "set  a  spell" 
and  eat  some  apples.  He  raked  open  the  coals 
in  the  fore-room  fireplace  and  put  on  some  wood, 
while  she  went  down  cellar  to  fill  the  apple  dish. 
Then  they  sat  down  before  the  fire  and  talked 
over  the  meeting.  Roxy  wondered  if  it  were 
really  true  that  the  world  was  coming  to  an  end 
very  soon,  but  David  wras  somewhat  skeptical. 
The  Aliens  were  not ' '  perf essors, ' '  but  the  Kents 
were  of  the  "Millerite"  faith  and  often  spoke 
of  the  last  days  and  the  end  of  the  world,  but 
seemed  in  no  haste  for  the  coming  of  that  event, 
at  least  not  until  they  had  seen  Roxy  "mar 
ried  an '  settled  down. ' ' 

David  had  just  put  another  stick  on  the  and 
irons  and  sat  with  the  tongs  in  his  hands  punch 
ing  the  fire.  Close  beside  him  was  Roxy  looking 
earnestly  into  the  glowing  coals  and  thinking 
what  would  become  of  all  her  beautiful  quilts 
and  rugs  if  the  world  really  should  come  to  an 
end,  when  suddenly  through  the  midnight 
sounded  the  shrill  blast  of  a  trumpet.  "That 
awful  day  has  surely  come"  ran  through  Roxy's 
head,  as  she  put  out  her  hands  and  fell  almost 
fainting  with  fright  into  David's  arms.  Again 


Roxy's   Good  Angel.  25 

and  again  the  trumpet  sounded,  waking  father 
and  mother  Kent,  and  finally  the  whole  neighbor 
hood.  At  first  the  good  people  peeped  timidly 
from  their  windows,  then  cautiously  stole  out  of 
their  houses  to  find  the  old  world  just  as  they 
had  left  it  when  they  went  to  the  land  of  dreams, 
except  that  there  was  a  white-robed  figure  on  the 
top  of  the  meeting-house  hill  blowing  a  trumpet. 

At  length  some  of  the  braver  ones  ventured  to 
approach  the  angel  and  found  that  it  was  Aunt 
Ketury  Follansbee.  "Ketury  was  once  the  han- 
sumest  gal  in  the  hull  neighborhood,"  so  the 
older  people  said,  "but  she  was  dispinted  an' 
had  be'n  kind  o'  daft  ever  sense."  She  had 
been  out  to  the  meeting  and  had  come  home  so 
wrought  up  that  she  had  conceived  the  idea  of 
impersonating  the  angel  Gabriel  and  calling  her 
neighbors  to  render  up  their  final  accounts;  so, 
draping  herself  in  a  sheet  and  taking  an  old  din 
ner  horn  she  had  gone  up  to  the  meeting-house 
to  call  together  the  living  and  the  dead. 

Ketury  was  considered  harmless  and  as  the 
Follansbees  were  "middlin'  well  to  do,"  she  had 
two  rooms  where  she  kept  house  by  herself  in 
the  old  home,  while  her  sister,  Charity,  "who 
had  married  with  Timothy  Skinner,"  lived  in 
the  other  part.  After  the  meeting  was  out  Char 
ity  had  gone  over  to  watch  with  Granny  Per- 


26  Roxy's    Good  Angel. 

kins,  who  had  had  ' '  a  shock  o '  numb  palsy ' '  the 
day  before  "an'  wa'n't  'spected  to  live  the  night 
out,"  and  Timothy,  being  "deef's  a  post,"  had 
not  heard  Ketury  go  out.  When  the  poor,  dazed 
creature  saw  herself  surrounded  by  the  company 
which  she  had  called  together,  she  realized  that 
she  had  made  a  mistake,  and  quietly  submitted  to 
be  led  back  home. 

David  and  Roxy  never  remembered  just  how 
it  happened,  but  in  that  awful  moment,  when 
they  thought  that  time  was  no  more,  they  real 
ized  how  much  they  were  to  each  other,  and  after 
the  terrible  fright  was  over,  and  the  cause  was 
found  to  be,  not  Gabriel's  trumpet,  but  the  old 
Follansbee  dinner  horn,  somehow  David  mus 
tered  up  courage  to  ask  Roxy  to  marry  him. 

The  next  day  as  mother  and  daughter  dis 
cussed  the  all-important  topic,  Mrs.  Kent  said 
emphatically,  "Now,  Roxy,  I  sh'd  advise  you  t' 
strike  whilst  the  iron 's  hot.  Your  clo  'es  is  plenty 
good  'nough,  an'  'f  I  was  in  your  place  I 
shouldn't  never  wait  to  git  that  'ere  green  silk 
gownd  made  up."  And  Roxy  decided  that  it 
was  best  not  to  wait.  So  on  Thursday  evening, 
just  as  Elder  Price  was  buttoning  up  his  great 
coat  and  preparing  to  go  over  to  Deac'n  Bas- 
com's  to  lead  the  prayer-meeting,  he  was  star 
tled  by  a  loud  and  sudden  rap  on  the  knocker. 


Roxy's   Good  Angel.  2? 

and  going  to  the  "fore-door"  found  there  a 
couple  wishing  to  be  married.  Mrs.  Price  was 
hastily  called  from  the  bedroom  (where  she  was 
singing  little  Tommy  to  sleep)  into  the  study, 
and  there  witnessed  the  ceremony  that  made 
David  Allen  and  Roxana  Kent  husband  and 
wife. 

When  the  door  had  closed  on  the  newly-mar 
ried  pair  the  elder  dropped  a  crisp  two-dollar 
bill  into  his  wife's  lap,  saying,  "Now,  Lucindy, 
help  me  into  my  surtout  as  quick  as  ever  you 
can,  for  I'm  belated  about  the  meeting.  I  came 
within  one  of  missing  that  job,  didn't  I?" 

"Some  good  angel  must  have  helped  them 
along,"  responded  his  wife,  smoothing  out  the 
new  bank  note.  "They'd  had  to  gone  over  to 
the  Orthodox  minister's.  His  meeting  hain't 
so  early  as  ours,  and  I  don't  believe  his  wife 
needs  the  money  half  as  much  as  I  do.  Now  I 
can  have  my  winter  bonnet  trimmed  over. ' ' 

Some  of  the  sisters  had  said  to  each  other, 
confidentially,  that  "they  was  afraid  that  Mis' 
Price  was  a  leetle  grain  too  worldly  for  a  -parson's 
wife."  And  Lucinda  Price,  standing  at  the 
looking-glass  and  pulling  out  her  bonnet  strings 
often  thought  how  becoming  they  were,  but  never 
knew  to  whom  she  was  indebted  for  her  bright 
ribbons. 


28  Roxy's   Good  Angel. 

Roxy,  however,  recognized  her  good  angel  and 
firmly  believed  that  David  would  never  have 
come  to  the  point  of  "speaking  out"  but  for 
Aunt  Ketury's  help,  and  she  was  duly  grate 
ful,  so  the  poor  soul  always  had  in  her  a 
kind  and  faithful  friend.  David  often  said  that 
he  never  could  see  what  made  Roxy  ' '  set  so  much 
by  ole  Ketury  Follansbee, "  and  Mrs.  Kent  said, 
"I  never  see  the  beat  on  't,  she  didn't  afore  she 
was  married." 

But  Roxy  kept  her  own  counsel. 


I. 

SILAS  MASON'S  WILL. 

It  was  one  of  those  rare  days  that  come  in  the 
last  of  September.  There  had  been  a  few  cool, 
frosty  nights,  then  this  beautiful  warm  day, 
when  the  golden  haze  hung  over  the  landscape 
and  softened  the  sharp  outlines  of  the  mountains. 
Not  a  cloud  was  mirrored  upon  the  smooth,  blue 
bosom  of  the  lake  with  its  double  border  of  bright 
crimson,  golden  yellow  and  deep  green,  the  hill 
side  and  its  reflection.  Along  the  roadside  blos 
somed  the  late  goldenrod  and  the  purple  asters. 
The  silky  milkweed  seeds  floated  lazily  away 
from  the  bursting  pods,  and  the  air  was  full  of 
the  chirp  of  crickets  and  the  fragrance  of  wild 
grapes. 

Hannah  Wilson,  going  over  to  spend  the  af 
ternoon  with  Mrs.  Ruben  Mason,  noticed  none 
of  the  beauties  of  nature  around  her,  and  as  she 
walked  along  only  thought,  "It's  gettin'  dret- 
ful  warm,  an'  we'd  ought  to  hev  some  rain  to 
lay  the  dust."  She  was  quite  a  corpulent  wo 
man  and  a  little  stiff,  as  she  had  been  doing  a 
large  washing  that  morning. 


30  Silas   Mason's   Will 

After  prayer-meeting  the  night  before,  this 
visit  had  been  planned.  "If  it's  a  fair  day," 
said  Hannah,  "Isaac's  a-goin'  up  to  th'  Falls 
with  a  load  o'  boarders." 

"And  our  men-folks  is  a-goin'  to  be  a-fencin' 
over  to  the  Leavitt  pastur',"  said  Mrs.  Mason. 
1 '  Now  dew  come  airly ! ' '  And  soon  after  one 
o'clock  Hannah  was  on  her  way  for  an  old-fash 
ioned  visit.  She  wore  a  clean  starched  calico 
dress,  a  new  checked  gingham  apron  and  a  Sha 
ker,  and  on  her  arm  hung  a  small  black  shawl 
with  a  bright  border,  "  'g'inst  it  might  come  up 
a  little  cool  towards  night. ' ' 

Although  the  beauties  of  the  landscape  had 
failed  to  awaken  any  emotion  in  Hannah  Wil 
son,  nothing  along  the  way  escaped  her  notice. 
"Mis'  Hanson  had  kivered  up  her  daleyees  so 
's  't  the  frost  hadn't  spilt  'em.  Steve  Baker's 
gate  was  a-hangin'  on  one  hinge,  prob'ly  Erne- 
line  an'  her  beau  were  a-leanin'  on  to  it  last 
night.  Nancy  Sykes  had  got  her  curtains  rolled 
up  in  the  fore-room,  must  be  she'd  got  comp'ny. 
Dave  Henry  Cook  was  a-settin '  in  a  rockin  '-cheer 
out  under  that  big  maple  o'  his'n,  readin',  shif '- 
less  critter.  He'd  better  be  diggin'  his  'taters. 
And  was  there  ever  such  a  dirty  lookin'  young 
un  as  Liddy  Ann  Johnsonses !  It  was  a  burnin ' 
shame  the  way  that  child  was  neglected ! ' ' 


Silas  Mason's  Will.  31 

Hannah's  walk  took  her  past  "the  yard,"  as 
everybody  in  Lakeside  called  the  burying- 
ground,  and  what  was  her  astonishment  to  see 
some  men  at  work  setting  up  a  handsome  white 
marble  monument  on  Silas  Mason's  lot. 

"Come  right  into  the  settin'-room,"  said  Mrs. 
Mason,  meeting  her  visitor  at  the  side  door.  The 
stately  fore-door,  with  its  side  lights  closely  cur 
tained  with  dotted  muslin,  was  supposed  to  be 
used  for  funerals  only,  as  was  also  the  musty 
fore-room,  which  the  sun  and  air  seldom  en 
tered,  except  on  the  days  of  the  semi-annual 
house  cleaning.  The  sitting-room  was  a  large 
corner  room  with  three  windows.  The  stove  had 
been  moved  out  for  the  summer  and  the  floor  was 
covered  with  a  bright-colored  rag  carpet,  which 
was  protected  from  wear  by  several  braided  mats. 

"Let  me  take  your  bunnit  an'  shawl,  an' 
here's  a  palm-leaf  fan.  Now  set  right  down  in 
that  rockin '-cheer, "  said  Mrs.  Mason,  indicating 
a  large  rocker  with  a  chintz  covering.  A  smaller 
rocker,  six  wooden  chairs,  painted  dark,  a  table 
with  slim,  twisted  legs  and  covered  with  an  oil 
cloth  on  which  birds  of  gay  plumage  were  min 
gled  with  flowers  of  bright  hues,  and  a  tall  sec 
retary,  for  Reuben  "had  a  middlin'  good  ede- 
cashun,  an'  had  done  town  business,"  completed 
the  furniture. 


32  Silas  Mason's   Will. 

"Them  boarders  '11  hev  a  good  day  to  th' 
Falls.  'Spose  they're  a-goin'  up  the  mountain 
to  look  off,  hain  't  they  ? ' '  asked  Mrs.  Mason. 

"Land  sakes!  yes,  an'  Isaac  says  they  act  like 
crazy  critters  'bout  the  scenery,  an '  'spect  him  to 
tell  'em  the  name  o'  ev'ry  hill  and  pond  'twixt 
this  lake  and  Mount  Washington.  Guess  they 
can't  see  fur  today  'count  o'  its  bein'  so  hazy. 
D'  you  ever  hear  what  Cap'n  Jerry  Whitcomb 
told  a  passel  o'  young  hands  that  climbed  up 
Belknap  last  summer?  They  borrowed  his  glass 
that  he  had  when  he  follered  the  sea.  So  when 
they  fetched  it  back,  they  bragged  that  they'd 
seen  the  ocean.  'Sho!'  said  Cap'n  Jerry,  'Last 
time  I  clum  up  there,  I  see  clean  in  ter  Lon 
don.  '  And  that  reminds  me  of  what  John  Hunt, 
when  he  was  pilot  on  the  big  steamboat,  said. 
The  water  was  kind  o'  low  that  year,  an'  he  was 
a-tendin'  to  his  steerin'  pretty  close  an'  a  fussy, 
little,  down-country  woman  kep'  a-pesterin'  on 
him  with  questions.  She  wanted  to  know  about 
ev'ry  little  island  an'  rock  in  the  lake,  an'  John, 
he  got  kind  o '  tuckered  out  with  her  't  last.  Then 
says  she, '  Oh,  Mr.  Pilot,  what  is  that  cunning  lit 
tle  island  out  there?'  'One  o'  the  Bahamas,  b' 
thunder ! '  says  he,  an '  she  took  the  hint  an '  shet 
up.  Well,  folks  will  be  folks.  Them  women 
'11  'bout  go  in  ter  extersies  today  over  the  au- 


Silas  Mason's  Will  33 

tumn  leaves  an'  want  to  stop  an'  load  up  the 
team  with  'em,  an'  the  nigh  horse  won't  stan' 
worth  a  cent.  Fer  my  part  't  al'ays  seems  dret- 
ful  sad  to  see  the  leaves  a-turnin',  they  drops  off 
so  quick.  Looks  to  me  like  the  hectic  flush  that's 
the  forerunner  o'  death.  My  Mary  Abby,  you 
know,  brightened  up  in  September,  then  she  died 
when  the  leaves  fell.  I  nat 'rally  looked  over 
into  the  yard  as  I  come  along,  and  what  dew  you 
suppose  I  see?" 

"I  hain't  no  idee,"  was  the  response. 

"Wall,  some  men  was  a-settin'  up  a  hansum 
white  marble  moniment  on  Silas  Masonses 
lot." 

"Land  o'  liberty!  Guess  he's  a-calc 'latin'  t' 
step  out  suddin',  and  a-gittin'  of  his  stun  up," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Reuben  Mason.  "I  al'ays 
thought  't  was  dretful  strange  though,  with  as 
much  money  's  he's  got,  that  he  didn't  go  to 
work  and  fix  up  his  lot,  like  other  folks.  The 
weeds  has  growed  pretty  rank  on  them  graves, 
pore  Leviny's  and  little  Ruth's." 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Hannah,  picking  up  a 
stitch  in  her  knitting,  "they've  be'n  dead  goin' 
on  twenty  year,  hain't  they?" 

' '  Twenty-two  year  come  next  November, ' '  was 
the  answer,  "for  't  was  that  fall  arter  my  Silas 
was  born  in  May. ' ' 

3 


34  Silas   Mason's   Will 

"How'd  Silas  git  his  money  anyhow?  He 
hain't  done  nothin'  late  years." 

"Oh,  he  saved  it  and  put  it  out  t'  int'rist. 
Then,  you  know,  't  don't  cost  'em  nothin'  t' 
live,  they  never  hev  no  comp'ny.  That  eats  up 
all  anybody  c'n  earn.  There  was  Uncle  Tim 
othy  Jacupses  folks,  al'ays  had  a  house  full,  then 
didn't  hev  'nough  to  kerry  'em  through.  Ma- 
haly's  folks  is  all  's  pore  's  poverty,  but  I  never 
know  'd  o '  her  havin '  any  on  'em  a-hangin '  round 
there,  bein'  's  she's  jest  the  housekeeper,  so  I 
s'pose  she  don't  feel  free  to  ask  'em,  if  she  has 
worked  there  so  long." 

"You  don't  never  go  there,  do  ye?  Mebbe 
that 's  a  sassy  question  for  me  to  ask. ' ' 

"No,  he  never  forgive  Reuben  for  marryin' 
me,  'cause  he  had  a  grudge  agin  father  on  ac 
count  o'  polerticks." 

"Bein'  's  he  hain't  got  no  fam'ly,  prob'ly 
your  Silas  '11  come  in  for  a  sheer  o'  the  prop'ty, 
bearin'  the  same  name  so,  though  I've  heerd  tell 
that  he  was  called  arter  his  gran 'sir'.  You 
ain  't  never  knowed  o '  no  will,  I  s  'pose. ' ' 

"No,  nor  we  shouldn't,  he's  so  close-mouthed. 
Most  likely  he  pays  Matildy  wages,  but  nobody 
ever  knowed  o'  her  layin'  up  any  money.  She 
has  good  clo'es,  though.  There  hain't  a  hand 
somer  Paisley  shawl  goes  in  t'  the  meetin '-house 


Silas  Mason's  Will.  35 

than  hern.  Si,"  continued  Mrs.  Mason,  "he 
don't  like  farm  work,  and  he's  a-plannin',  if  he 
ever  does  hev  a  legacy  fall  to  him,  to  buy  out  a 
store  somewheres  an'  go  inter  trade." 

"  'Spose  he's  a-goin'  to  marry  the  Ellswuth 
girl,  hain't  he?" 

"Wall,  I  guess  it's  onsartin'.  He  don't  want 
to  ask  her  to  come  here  to  live  'long  o'  the  old 
folks,  but  'f  he  could  get  him  a  store,  he  thinks 
she'd  be  dretful  tickled  to  be  a  trader's  wife." 

' '  There ! ' '  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wilson,  as  she  fin 
ished  off  the  toe  of  the  "foot'n'  ''  that  she  was 
knitting,  "I've  got  my  stent  done,  an'  I  guess 
I'd  best  be  a-startin',  for  Isaac  '11  be  gittin'  back 
from  the  mount 'in,  an'  he'll  be  's  hungry  as  a 
bear.  What  o  'clock  is  it  ? " 

"Only  half  arter  four,"  said  Mrs.  Mason,  af 
ter  consulting  the  tall  clock  in  the  kitchen,  "an' 
you  hain  't  a-goin '  one  step  till  you  've  had  a  dish 
o'  tea  'long  o'  me.  The  table  's  all  sot,  an'  I've 
cut  one  o'  my  speckled  cheeses,  an'  the  tea's  on 
a-drawin'." 

So  Mrs.  Wilson  cast  on  the  stitches  and  set 
the  seams  for  the  mate  to  the  "foot'n'  "  she  had 
just  finished.  Then  Mrs.  Mason  appeared  in  the 
doorway  again,  saying,  "Now  lay  down  your 
work  an'  walk  right  out  to  supper." 

The  two  good  women  sipped  their  fragrant 


36  Silas   Mason's   Will. 

tea  from  the  pretty  pink  cups,  Mrs.  Mason's 
wedding  present  from  an  aunt  that  lived  down 
below.  They  spread  the  golden  butter  on  the 
soft  "riz"  bread,  made  from  "hop  emptin's/' 
and  ate  it  with  damson  preserve  and  sage  cheese. 
Each  had  a  cup  cake  and  a  crisp  seed  cake,  then 
Mrs.  Wilson  "jes'  tasted"  of  the  fruit  cake  and 
both  had  a  cup  custard  "to  top  off"  with. 

"Guess  I'll  walk  out  a  piece  with  ye,"  re 
marked  Mrs.  Mason  as  her  guest  arose  to  go. 
So  they  walked  along  together  as  far  as  "the 
yard,"  and  seeing  the  Mason  lot  all  fixed  up, 
and  nobody  around,  Mrs.  Mason  said,  "Let's 
step  in  jest  a  minute  an'  take  a  look  on  't." 

A  vision  of  the  impatient  Isaac  came  up  before 
Hannah  Wilson,  and  she  said,  "I  hadn't  oughter 
stop,"  but  both  women  went  in  and,  squaring 
their  spectacles  across  their  noses,  thoroughly  ex 
amined  the  new  monument.  ' '  SILAS  MASON  ' '  was 
engraved  in  large  letters  on  the  front,  with  the 
date  of  his  birth,  and  the  word  "died,"  at  which 
Mrs.  Mason  exclaimed,  "My  stars!"  and  Han 
nah,  "Goodness  gracious!"  The  latter  contin 
ued,  "I  guess  he  thinks  he  hain't  long  fer  this 
world;  sence  he  had  that  bad  spell  down  t'  the 
meetin '-house  he's  be'n  kind  o'  runnin'  down. 
Isaac  see  him  t'  other  day,  an'  said  his  count '- 
nance  didn  't  look  well  't  all. ' ' 


Silas  Mason's  Will.  37 

"I'll  bate  ye  one  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Mason, 
' '  Silas  won 't  leave  all  his  prop  'ty  to  f orrin  mis 
sions,  same  's  Aunt  Lois  Stone  did.  D'  you 
know  't  her  niece,  Eunice  Vittum,  that  took  keer 
on  her  in  her  last  sickness,  had  be'n  obleeged  to 
call  on  the  townd  ? ' ' 

"How  you  talk!  But  there,  I  do  declare,  I 
must  hurry  along  or  Isaac  '11  git  there  fust,  an' 
he  '11  be  all  torn  out  if  he  can't  git  in.  I  hid 
the  key  where  I  al'ays  do,  but  he  '11  never  think 
to  look." 

And  sure  enough,  when  Hannah  Wilson 
reached  home,  there  sat  Isaac  on  a  box  in  the 
barn  floor.  "Here  I've  be'n  settin'  an  hour," 
said  he,  but  in  reality  it  was  not  more  than  five 
minutes.  "Why  could  n't  ye  'a'  left  the  key 
somewheres  so  's  't  I  could  'a'  found  it?  I 
fumbled  round  everywhere." 

"Here  't  is,  right  behind  the  door-rock,  jest 
where  I've  put  it  this  twenty  year,"  the  good 
wife  answered,  but  Isaac  had  to  grumble  a  little, 
for  it  was  his  nature.  Soon,  however,  the  hot 
cream  tartar  biscuits  and  the  warm  stewed  ap 
ple  sauce,  for  Hannah  was  as  spry  as  a  trap, 
so  the  neighbors  said,  made  him  forget  all  petty 
annoyances. 


38  Silas   Mason's   Will. 

II. 

It  was  a  cold  December  day,  the  snow  was 
falling  fast  and  blowing  hither  and  thither  as 
it  fell,  so  that  it  was  collecting  in  uneven  heaps, 
piled  up  high  in  some  places  and  leaving  the 
frozen  ground  quite  bare  in  others. 

"  'Tain't  no  use  to  hang  out  clo'es  long's  it's 
snowin'  like  this,"  Hannah  Wilson  said  to  her 
self,  as  she  wiped  her  wet  hands  and  arms  on  the 
roller  and  looked  out  at  the  storm.  "I'll  jes' 
put  'em  to  soak." 

At  this  moment  Isaac  hurried  in,  and,  stamp 
ing  the  snow  from  his  boots,  exclaimed,  "Silas 
Mason  's  dead!" 

' '  You  don 't  say  so !     When  'd  he  die  ? ' ' 
'Twixt  four  and  five  this  mornin'." 

"How  'd  ye  hear?" 

"  'Bijah  Jones  was  a-tellin'  on  't  over  t'  the 
store.  Land !  if  I  hain  't  come  off  'thout  yer  salt 
fish.  I  left  it  layin'  on  the  counter.  I'll  slip 
right  back." 

"Hold  on,  there  won't  nobody  kerry  it  off. 
What  else  did  'Bijah  say?" 

"Wall,  he  said  his  woman  was  up  'fore  light 
this  mornin'  so  's  to  go  to  washin',  an'  she  was 
jest  a-startin'  of  the  fire  under  the  arch,  when 
in  run  Matildy,  all  out  o'  breath,  and  wanted 


Silas  Mason's  Will  39 

that  he  sh'd  go  after  Doctor  Hines,  for  she 
b'lieved  Silas  was  a-dyin'.  So  he  jumped  into 
his  clo'es  's  quick  's  ever  he  could  an'  run  every 
step  o'  the  way,  an'  Loizy,  she  run  right  back 
with  Matildy.  The  doctor  was  to  home  an '  come 
jest  as  fast  's  he  c'd  git  there,  but  he  said  't 
wa'n't  no  use,  for  Silas  was  struck  with  death, 
an'  in  about  ten  minutes  he  breathed  his  last. 
They  say  Matildy  's  all  broke  up,  she  sot  a  store 
by  Silas." 

"Folks  uster  think  mebbe  he'd  marry  her 
sometime,"  said  Hannah,  "an'  I  guess  she  'd 
be'n  dretful  glad  to  'a'  had  him,  but  I  s'pose 
she  gin  it  all  up  years  ago. ' ' 

Soon,  through  the  blinding  snow,  came  the 
slow  tolling  of  the  meeting-house  bell,  and  every 
body  stopped  to  count  the  strokes — seventy-two 
— and  nobody  had  thought  that  Silas  Mason  was 
quite  as  old  as  that,  and  everybody  wondered 
where  the  property  would  go. 

"He  hain't  no  kin  'cept  Reuben's  folks,"  they 
said,  "an'  he  never  liked  Reuben's  wife.  He  op 
posed  the  match  from  the  fust  on  't.  Most  likely 
he  's  willed  everything  to  the  boy,  though  he 
never  seemed  to  take  to  him  much. ' ' 

Just  as  soon  as  she  could  get  away,  Hannah 
Wilson  went  over  and  offered  her  services  in  the 
house  of  mourning.  Matilda  was  so  overcome 


40  Silas  Mason's   Will 

that  she  was  glad  to  give  up  the  management, 
so  Hannah  was  installed  as  head  cook,  and  spent 
most  of  the  next  day  in  filling  up  the  great 
brick  oven  with  beans  and  brown  bread,  mince, 
apple  and  pumpkin  pies. 

The  funeral  was  appointed  at  one  o'clock 
Wednesday.  Matildy  said,  "He  hadn't  no  re 
lations  to  be  sent  for,  but  I  sent  off  a  letter  by 
the  stage  to  Union  Village,  Monday,  to  invite 
Brother  Ben's  folks,  then  all  the  neighbors  must 
be  asked,  or  somebody '11  feel  slighted." 

The  Tuesday  evening  stage  brought  Brother 
Ben  and  his  wife  and  their  five  children,  the  old 
est  a  girl  of  ten  and  the  youngest,  Baby  Ben, 
whose  age  was  less  than  a  year. 

"Matildy  Young  'd  never  dast  to  hev  all  o' 
them  young  uns  there  'f  Silas  was  alive,"  com 
mented  Mrs.  Eeuben  Mason.  "Mercy  sakes! 
wouldnt'  he  've  had  a  conniption  fit?" 

"Pore  Matildy,  she  takes  it  dretful  hard," 
said  Hannah  "Wilson.  "S'pose  you  knowed  't 
she  'd  borrowed  Mis'  Sawyer's  crape  bunnit  an' 
veil,  didn't  ye?" 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply,  "an'  I  wa'n't  a-goin' 
to  be  outdid,  so  I  jest  sent  Si  over  to  Widder 
Brown's  and  got  her  mournin'." 

The  question  as  to  who  should  be  the  chief 
mourner  was  warmly  discussed.  Reuben's  wife 


Silas  Mason's  Will  41 

said,  "Of  course  his  own  brother  ought  to  go 
fust,  an'  bein'  's  I'm  his  brother's  wife,  I'd  nat'- 
rally  set  alongside  o'  my  husband.  To  hev  a 
housekeeper  come  in  afore  his  own  kin,  that  'd 
be  a  great  note." 

But  Matilda  was  persistent,  and  'Squire  Har 
ris,  who  was  authority  on  all  matters  in  the  vil 
lage,  said,  ' '  I  guess  Matildy  '11  miss  him  's  much 
's  anybody,  and  feel  as  bad,  too." 

So  it  was  arranged  that  Matilda  and  Si  should 
go  first,  then  Keuben  and  his  wife,  followed  by 
Brother  Ben  and  wife  and  the  four  older  chil 
dren,  and  then  the  neighbors  should  all  fall  into 
line. 

A  funeral  was  an  occasion  not  to  be  missed  and 
everybody  wanted  to  go  early  to  get  a  good  seat 
and  see  the  mourners  come  in.  The  Orthodox 
meeting-house,  where  the  Masons  had  worshiped 
for  three  generations,  was  crowded  to  its  utmost 
seating  capacity,  then  chairs  were  brought  in 
from  the  houses  nearby  and  placed  along  the 
aisles  and  in  all  other  available  spaces.  Elder 
Hinkley,  who  had  ministered  to  this  people  for 
nearly  thirty  years,  preached  a  thrilling  ser 
mon,  fifty-five  minutes  long,  on  the  uncertainty 
of  life,  then  wound  up  with  a  harrowing  address 
to  the  mourners,  which  was  especially  affecting, 
when  he  spoke  of  the  bereaved  companion. 


42  Silas   Mason's   Will 

Reuben 's  wife  thought  Elder  Hinkley  was  ' '  a- 
showin '  his  age ' '  to  make  such  a  mistake  as  that, 
but  most  folks  supposed  he  did  it  to  be  flowery, 
"bein'  's  how  companion  sounded  so  much  bet 
ter  'n  housekeeper." 

After  the  preacher  had  finished,  'Squire  Har 
ris,  who  took  charge,  arose  and  said,  "The  con 
gregation  can  now  have  an  opportunity  to  view 
the  remains.  You  will  please  pass  from  the  east 
side  of  the  house  round  to  the  west  door." 

So  the  people  filed  slowly  past  the  coffin,  some 
of  the  oldest  ones  stopping  to  touch  the  corpse, 
lest  they  might  dream  of  it.  And  everybody 
thought  Silas  looked  very  nat'ral. 

Returning  from  the  grave,  the  mourners,  the 
minister's  family  and  the  near  neighbors  went 
back  to  the  house,  where  hot  tea  was  given  to 
those  who  felt  chilly,  and  soon  they  all  sat  down 
at  the  long  table  that  Hannah  and  her  assistants 
had  laid  with  great  care  and  looked  upon  with 
honest  pride. 

After  everyone  had  partaken  of  the  feast,  for 
such  it  was,  they  all  adjourned  to  the  fore-room 
to  hear  the  will  read.  'Squire  Harris  stood  up, 
cleared  his  throat  and  said,  "This  paper  that  I 
hold  in  my  hands  is  dated  nineteen  years  ago  the 
twentieth  of  last  April  and  has  been  in  my  pos 
session  ever  since.  I  drew  it  up  for  our  deceased 


Silas  Mason's  Will.  43 

brother,  and  not  a  week  before  he  passed  from 
hence,  he  assured  me  that  it  was  his  last  will  and 
testament."  Then  he  proceeded  to  read  the 
document. 

There  was  one  hundred  dollars  for  Elder 
Hinkley,  which  statement  made  that  worthy 
man's  face  beam  with  delight.  "One  hundred 
dollars  for  Reuben  Mason  and  one  hundred  dol 
lars  for  Silas  Mason,  his  son,"  continued  the 
'squire,  at  which  father  and  son  looked  very 
glum,  but  what  astonished  the  assembly  most  was 
the  next  statement  that  the  house,  land  and  all 
the  interest  money  were  willed  and  bequeathed 
to  the  beloved  wife,  Matilda  Young  Mason. 

"Good  Heavens!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Reuben 
Mason,  jumping  up  from  her  chair. 

"Mercy  sakes!"  came  from  Hannah  "Wilson, 
while  all  eyes  were  turned  toward  Matilda,  but 
that  little  woman  only  hid  her  face  in  her  hand 
kerchief  and  wept. 

Then  the  'squire  produced  the  marriage  cer 
tificate  dated  twenty  years  back,  and  told  the 
people  that  said  couple  had  been  united  in  wed 
lock  by  Elder  Hinkley,  who  had  kept  the  secret 
all  these  years. 

"I'll  bate  't  was  that  summer  't  yer  wife's 
mother  died  up  in  Varmont,  an'  you  an'  Mis' 
Hinkley  was  off  up  there  an'  the  meetin '-house 


44  Silas  Mason's   Will. 

was  shet  up  for  two  weeks,"  said  Mrs.  Reuben 
Mason.  "And  I  rec'lect  at  that  time  Silas  an' 
Matildy  went  off  one  day  with  'Squire  Harrises 
old  white  horse  an'  chaise,  and  was  gone  three 
days.  Folks  thought  besure  they  was  married, 
but  long  's  we  didn  't  hear  nothin '  more  'bout  it, 
we  giv'  up  that  't  wa'n't  so."  The  elder  con 
fessed  that  that  was  the  time,  but  he  never  could 
understand  why  Silas  wasn't  willing  that  the 
marriage  should  be  made  public. 

"Well,  Silas  always  was  an  odd  stick,"  said 
'Squire  Harris,  "and  I  presume  he  wanted  to 
surprise  folks  with  his  will.  The  money  that 
he's  had  out  to  interest  foots  up  to  ten  thousand 
dollars." 

Amid  the  chorus  of  "I  want  to  know,"  "Dew 
tell,"  and  "Who  'd  'a'  thought  it?"  the  women 
all  went  around  and  shook  hands  with  and  con 
gratulated  Mrs.  Silas  Mason,  except  Reuben's 
wife,  who  started  for  home,  telling  Hannah  Wil 
son  that  she  'd  never  "darken  them  doors  ag'in," 
and  she  never  did.  But  there  were  always  some 
of  "Brother  Ben's  children"  in  the  home  of 
"Aunt  Matildy." 


I. 


CAUGHT  IN  A  CYCLONE. 

"Id'  know,  Luther,  but  you  '11  have  ter  git  ye 
a  wife. ' '  remarked  Mrs.  Sargent,  sitting  opposite 
her  son  at  the  breakfast  table  one  beautiful  Sun 
day  morning  in  May. 

"Why,  ain't  ye  feelin'  's  well  's  common, 
mother?"  asked  the  son,  somewhat  alarmed. 
His  mother  had  never  liked  to  think  of  his 
bringing  home  a  wife,  and  if  he  ever  mentioned 
any  of  the  girls  some  criticism  was  sure  to  fol 
low. 

"Wall,"  said  she  with  a  sigh,  "you  must  re 
member  't  I'm  gittin'  'long  in  years,  an'  you 
can't  hev  me  al'ays.  I  sh'll  be  seventy-four 
come  the  sixteenth  day  o'  next  month,  'f  I  sh'd 
live." 

"I  don't  see  but  your  vittles  is  's  good  's 
ever.  These  beans  is  sweetened  jest  right,"  said 
he,  filling  his  plate  the  second  time,  "an'  I  de 
clare  if  you  hain't  put  plums  into  the  brown 
bread." 

"Seems  kind  o'  'stravigant,  but  I  know'd  't 


46  Caught  in  a  Cyclone. 

you  liked  'em.  Hev  a  doughnut?  Them's  extry 
good,  if  I  do  say  it." 

"Letty  Fisher  's  a  pretty  girl,"  ventured 
Luther,  drinking  his  coffee. 

"Mercy  sakes!"  said  the  mother,  "I  shouldn't 
want  ter  git  into  that  fam'ly.  Ole  Gran'  sir' 
Fisher  was  tew  lazy  ter  injoy  good  health,  an' 
Tim's  a  chip  o'  the  ole  block.  None  o'  Susan's 
folks  ever  had  any  gumption,  nuther.  I  know 
'em  all,  root  an'  branch." 

"Fanny  Murray  sings  well,"  suggested 
Luther. 

"An'  that's  all  she  does  do,"  said  Mrs.  Sar 
gent,  "sing  an'  play  on  the  organ.  They  say  her 
mother  don't  put  no  work  on  her  't  all,  but  lets 
her  lay  abed  till  nine  o'clock  in  the  mornin',  an' 
keeps  her  breakfast  warm.  She's  a  sp'ilin'  the 
gal.  I  sp'ose  it's  'cause  she  lost  all  the  others." 

"How  do  you  like  Ellen  Lundy?" 

"Good  land!  but  Ellen's  a  smart  gal,  consid- 
erin'  what  she  sprung  from.  Her  mother, 
though,  was  Lucy  Jane  Edwards,  in  the  day  of 
her,  an'  time  was  when  she  held  her  head  's 
high  's  anybody's.  Everybody  wondered  't  her 
marryin'  Joe  Lundy,  but  she  got  dis'p'inted, 
pore  soul.  She  set  her  life  by  John  Newton,  an ' 
'spected  ter  marry  him,  but  he  went  off  down  be 
low  to  work  an'  fell  in  love  with  one  of  them  air 


Caught  in  a  Cyclone.  47 

city  gals  with,  a  rich  father.  It  broke  Lucy 
Jane  all  up.  Folks  said  John  wouldn't  pros 
per,  an'  he  didn't.  His  childern  all  died  with 
the  dipthery.  I  heerd  t'other  day  't  Alice  Stu 
art  was  a-comin'  up  to  her  Aunt  Malviny's 
ag'in  this  summer." 

"Oh,  Alice  wouldn't  look  at  me,  she's  too 
high  toned  for  country  folks,"  said  Luther. 

"Wall,  she  hain't  no  call  to  put  on  airs.  Her 
father  went  inter  trade  down  here  t'  the  Cor 
ner  an'  failed  up,  an'  yer  pa  lost  fifty  dollars 
by  him,  clean  cash.  They  say  Sophy  Goodwin  's 
a  dretful  capable  gal,"  resumed  Mrs.  Sargent, 
changing  the  subject. 

"Yes,"  assented  the  son,  "Sophy  's  a  nice 
girl,  but  she's  so  bashful  I  never  could  get  much 
acquainted  with  her.  Mebbe  she  wouldn't  want 
such  an  old  bachelor  's  I  am." 

"Sho!  your  pa  was  older  'n  you  be  when  he 
got  married,  an'  Sophy  's  out  of  a  good  fam'ly, " 
continued  the  mother,  ' '  no  black  sheep  on  neither 
side.  They  say  't  the  heft  o'  the  Morrill  prop 
erty  's  comin'  to  them,  an'  the  Goodwins  is  con- 
sid'ble  fore-handed  now.  Some  folks  thinks 
Ezra's  a  leetle  nigh,  but  anybody  has  ter  be  to 
hev  anything." 

Now  Luther  had  been  thinking  of  Sophy  the 
day  before,  when  he  was  washing  the  buggy  and 


48  Caught  in  a   Cyclone. 

oiling  the  harness;  then,  besides,  when  he  had 
braided  up  Charlie's  mane,  he  had  whispered  a 
secret  into  one  of  his  beautiful  pointed  ears. 

"S'pose  you're  goin'  to  meetin'  today,"  he 
remarked  as  he  got  up  from  the  table. 

"Yes,"  was  the  response.  "Miss  Greene  's 
trimmed  me  up  a  dretful  tasty  bunnit  with  a 
laylock  ribbon  on  it  (I  didn't  want  no  ol'  wo 
man's  bunnit),  an'  I  told  her  't  I  sh'd  be  out 
today  to  christen  it,  if  't  was  fair  weather. ' ' 

Elder  Abbott  lived  at  the  Corner  and  preached 
in  the  brick  church  there  every  other  Sunday 
morning,  and  at  the  old  meeting-house  at  the 
Falls,  three  miles  away,  on  the  alternate  Sun 
day  afternoons.  This  was  his  day  at  the 
Corner,  and  it  being  so  pleasant  the  house  was 
well  filled.  Sophy  was  there,  wearing  one  of 
the  triumphs  of  Miss  Greene's  skill,  a  sun? 
burned  leghorn  of  the  year  before,  which  had 
been  bleached  and  pressed,  the  blue  ribbon 
turned  and  an  ornament  added.  "Nobody  '11 
mistrust  't  ain't  a  bran'  new  hat,"  said  the  lit 
tle  milliner  to  the  fair  wearer,  ' '  and  the  shape  's 
so  becomin'." 

From  the  kindly  face  of  Elder  Abbott,  above 
the  high  desk,  the  eyes  of  Luther  Sargent  wan 
dered  to  the  pretty  face  of  Sophy  Goodwin  across 
the  aisle.  She  was  listening  devoutly  to  the  ser- 


Caught  in  a  Cyclone.  49 

mon,  which  was  on  the  observance  of  the  Sab 
bath,  but  he  wasn't  hearing  a  word  of  it. 

The  Goodwins  lived  in  a  neat  white  cottage  a 
little  in  from  the  road,  about  half  way  between 
the  Corner  and  the  Falls.  They  usually  at 
tended  the  day-time  services  at  both  churches, 
but  seldom  went  out  for  the  evening  meetings. 

In  her  pretty  little  room  upstairs  Sophy  sat 
by  the  open  window  reading  her  Sunday-school 
book,  while  in  the  sitting-room  below  Mrs.  Good 
win  sat  in  the  great  rocking  chair,  her  spectacles 
pushed  back  on  the  top  of  her  head,  and  nodded 
now  and  then  at  the  Congregationalist,  spread 
out  on  her  ample  lap.  "Father"  was  stretched 
out  on  the  lounge  in  the  kitchen,  and  his  breath 
ing  indicated  that  his  nap  was  not  likely  to  be 
finished  before  milking  time.  The  boys,  Sam 
and  Dick,  taking  advantage  of  the  situation,  had 
made  an  early  start  for  the  cows  down  in  the 
south  pasture.  This  unusual  promptness  was 
due  to  a  suggestion  from  Sam  that  they  take  a 
swim  in  the  pond. 

As  Sophy  read  on,  in  the  biography  of  the 
good  missionary,  her  eyes  now  and  then  wan 
dered  from  the  book  around  the  neatly  kept 
room,  from  the  yellow  painted  floor,  almost  cov 
ered  with  braided  mats,  to  the  pink  and  white 
bed  quilt,  and  to  the  little  pictures  and  keep- 


50  Caught  in  a   Cyclone. 

sakes  here  and  there,  then  out  through  the  white 
dimity  curtains  into  the  world  beyond.  A  beau 
tiful  world  it  was,  in  all  the  tints  of  spring. 
The  trees  were  just  smoothing  out  their  crum 
pled  leaves,  and  down  in  the  wood  lot  the  hob 
ble-bushes  gleamed  like  drifts  of  snow  in  the 
shimmer  of  faintest  pink  and  dazzling  green. 
Along  the  grassy  bank  of  the  brook,  winding 
through  the  opposite  field,  great  bunches  of 
violets  held  up  their  purple-bonneted  heads. 
Through  the  apple  orchard  the  pink  buds  were 
bursting  into  white  blossoms  and  by  the  roadside 
patches  of  bluets  looked  like  tiny  sheets  of  snow, 
defying  the  spring  sunshine.  The  dooryard  was 
dotted  with  May-weed  and  flecked  with  dande 
lion  gold,  while  through  the  still  air,  now  and 
then,  a  sweet  bird  note  sounded. 

Just  as  the  tall  clock  in  the  kitchen  struck 
five,  Sophy  saw  Luther  Sargent  drive  down  the 
hill  and  turn  into  the  lane.  She  ran  quickly 
downstairs  to  her  mother,  saying,  "What  if  he 
asks  me  to  go  to  ride  with  him?" 

"Well,  it's  a  pleasant  day.  Slip  off  that  pink 
calico,  put  on  your  new  dress  an'  best  hat,  an' 
go." 

"What  will  father  say  to  my  going  Sunday 
night?" 

"Oh,  I'll  make  it  all  right  with  your  father. 


Caught  in  a  Cyclone.  51 

You  go  to  the  door  an'  show  Luther  into  the 
parlor.  Roll  up  the  green  paper  curtains  first. 
Mind  you  don't  tear  'em,"  said  Mrs.  Goodwin, 
as  she  dropped  her  gingham  apron,  disclosing  a 
white  one  underneath,  a  precaution  which  she 
always  took  in  case  a  neighbor  might  drop  in. 

In  response  to  Sophy's  "Walk  in,"  Luther 
said,  "Guess  I  won't  step  inside,  I'll  stay  by 
Charlie.  He  don't  like  to  stand  very  well.  I 
jest  drove  round  to  see  if  you  wouldn't  like  to 
go  to  ride,  the  weather  's  so  fine." 

Mrs.  Goodwin  came  out,  sat  down  on  the  door- 
rock  and  inquired  how  Luther's  mother  was 
this  spring,  if  she  had  commenced  to  make 
cheese  yet,  and  how  many  acres  of  corn  he  was 
"calc 'latin'  "  to  plant. 

In  a  few  minutes  Sophy  was  ready.  "It 
seems  to  be  cloudin'  up  a  little  over  there  in 
the  west,  but  I  s'pose  there  hain't  no  need  o' 
your  takin'  an  umbrell, "  said  Mrs.  Goodwin  as 
the  couple  drove  off. 

Soon  they  were  so  busy  talking  of  other  things 
that  the  weather  was  forgotten.  Sophy  loved 
horses  and  Charlie  turned  back  his  pretty  ears 
to  listen  to  her  praises  of  his  glossy  coat  and 
beautiful  wavy  mane. 

Suddenly  Luther  exclaimed,  "It's  sort  o' 
breezin'  up!"  and  looking  around,  he  saw  a 


52  Caught  in  a   Cyclone. 

large  black  cloud,  of  a  peculiar  shape,  rolling  up 
in  the  sky.  "Shure  's  preachin',  Sophy,  there's 
a  shower  a-comin'.  It's  furder  back  to  your 
house  than  'tis  up  to  ourn.  Guess  you'll  hev 
to  go  home  with  me  an'  wait  till  it's  over." 

Just  then  Charlie  felt  the  whip  on  his  back, 
an  unusual  sensation,  but  apparently  taking  in 
the  situation,  he  started  off  for  a  race  with 
the  storm.  Soon  the  dust  whirled  in  clouds,  the 
tender  new  leaves  were  flying  through  the  air, 
and  the  big  drops  began  to  fall. 

"  'Tain't  no  use,"  said  Luther,  "we  sh'll  hev 
to  drive  up  here  to  the  next  house.  You  know 
Leander  Perry's  folks,  don't  ye?  An'  their 
barn  door  's  open." 

Leander  Perry  had  been  "raised"  in  that 
neighborhood,  but  when  quite  a  young  man  had 
gone  West,  where  he  had  remained  several  years, 
with  varying  fortunes.  When  asked  why  he 
returned  to  his  old  home,  he  had  said,  "As  soon 
's  I  got  a  little  ahead,  'long  'd  come  a  cyclone 
an'  sweep  away  everything,  so  I  reckoned  I'd 
come  back  to  New  England,  where  they  didn't 
hev  sich  things." 

Leander  came  hurrying  out  to  the  barn  to 
greet  his  guests,  saying,  "Wall,  'f  I  was  out 
West  I  sh'd  say  we  was  in  fer  a  reg'lar  cy 
clone." 


Caught  in  a  Cyclone.  53 

Luther  jumped  out,  but  Sophy,  feeling  some 
what  bashful,  as  she  was  not  acquainted  with 
Mrs.  Perry,  said  she  would  rather  sit  in  the 
buggy.  So  they  fastened  Charlie  in  the  corner 
of  the  barn  next  the  shed.  Soon,  however,  the 
women-folks  came  out  and  prevailed  upon  Sophy 
to  go  into  the  house  with  them. 

No  sooner  were  they  all  seated  in  the  sitting- 
room  than  the  storm  grew  rapidly  worse.  The 
rain  swept  in  blinding  sheets  across  the  field, 
and  it  grew  so  dark  that  they  could  barely  see 
the  outlines  of  the  swaying  trees  across  the  road. 
The  old  house  fairly  rocked  with  each  gust  of 
wind ;  then  came  a  sharp  flash  of  light,  followed 
by  a  terrific  crash  that  almost  stunned  them. 
When  they  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  look 
from  the  windows  the  clouds  were  lifting,  and 
the  returning  light  revealed  the  dooryard  lit 
tered  with  bricks  from  the  great  chimney  and 
broken  branches  from  the  trees,  while  the  barn 
was  lying  in  a  heap,  only  a  little  corner  next 
the  shed  standing. 

Charlie  whinnied  and  stretched  out  his  neck 
as  he  heard  his  master's  step  approaching,  but 
his  eyes  protruded  wildly  and  he  was  trembling 
all  over.  Hemmed  in  by  piles  of  rafters  and 
broken  boards,  they  found  him  unharmed,  how 
ever,  save  for  a  few  scratches.  A  big  beam  had 


54  Caught  in  a  Cyclone. 

fallen  across  the  seat  of  the  buggy,  "Right  where 
you'd  'a'  be'n  settin',  Sophy,"  said  Luther,  and 
they  shuddered  as  they  thought  of  the  narrow 
escape. 

"Might  's  well  hev  staid  out  West  as  ter  come 
on  here  ter  git  rid  o'  cyclones,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Perry.  "I  reckon  we  fetched  'em  back  with 
us." 

"Wall,  I'm  mighty  thankful  we  hadn't  no 
live  stock  in  that  barn,"  said  her  husband. 
"Id'  know,  though,  but  we've  lost  old  Ruth.  I 
found  her  writh  a  couple  o '  kittens  up  on  the  hay 
mow  yisterday.  I  meant  to  'a'  drownded  'em, 
but  it  slipped  my  mind.  What's  that?"  and  ap 
proaching  the  object  in  question,  he  found  it  to 
be  the  remains  of  a  very  small  gray  kitten. 
"We  shall  miss  old  Ruth,  she  was  such  a  good 
mouser,"  he  added.  Then  his  little  daughter, 
Susie,  began  softly  calling.  "Ruthie,  Ruthie, 
kitty,  kitty,  kitty!"  while  her  gentle  blue  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  In  a  few  minutes,  however, 
there  came  slowly  creeping  out  from  under  the 
woodshed  an  old  three-colored  cat,  with  a  little 
black  kitten  in  her  mouth. 

Luther  was  obliged  to  borrow  Mr.  Perry's 
wagon  to  take  Sophy  home,  and  on  the  way  they 
counted  five  great  barns  that  lay  like  huge  piles 
of  kindling  wood  by  the  roadside. 


Caught  in  a   Cyclone.  55 

"I've  be'n  all  up  in  arms  'bout  ye!"  ex 
claimed  Mrs.  Goodwin,  as  she  came  running  out 
at  the  sound  of  wheels,  "but  father  said  of 
course  you  'd  drive  in  somewheres. ' ' 

The  Goodwin  home,  fortunately,  was  on  the 
outer  edge  of  the  storm,  and  so  knew  little  of 
its  fury. 

"I  must  hurry  home  and  see  'f  mother  's  all 
right,"  said  Luther,  adding  something  in  a  low 
voice  to  Sophy,  at  which  she  blushed  and  nod 
ded.  When  he  had  driven  away,  she  said,  "I 
guess  I've  spoilt  my  hat,  an'  I'm  'fraid  my 
dress  '11  cockle.  Wha*t  did  father  say  ?  I  s 'pose 
'f  I'd  been  killed,  he'd  thought  't  was  a  judg 
ment  for  going  Sunday  night." 

"Law,  child!  He  never  said  a  word.  He  al- 
'ays  sot  a  sight  by  the  Sargents.  Never  mind 
yer  hat,  it's  be'n  done  over.  'Tain't  's  'f  't  was 
new.  Now  run  right  up  stairs  an '  take  off  them 
damp  clo'es.  I've  got  a  fire  in  the  kitchen  to 
dry  'em  by.  The  teakittle  's  a-b'ilin'  an'  I'm 
goin'  to  fix  ye  up  some  hot  drink." 

When  Sophy  came  down,  wearing  her  second 
best  dress,  wyith  a  bright  new  ribbon  at  her 
throat,  the  boys  were  just  coming  in  with  their 
pails  of  foaming  milk. 

"AA7hew,  Soph!"  exclaimed  Sam,  "what  ye  so 
dressed  up  for,  jest  bed  time?" 


56  Caught  in  a   Cyclone. 

"Bet  her  beau  's  comin'  back.  Let's  watch," 
slyly  whispered  Dick,  as  Mrs.  Goodwin  looked 
into  the  parlor  to  see  if  there  was  plenty  of  oil 
in  the  big  lamp. 

Luther  found  that  his  house  was  not  in  the 
path  of  the  cyclone  and,  save  for  uneasiness  on 
his  account,  his  mother  had  not  been  disturbed 
by  it.  So,  after  giving  Charlie  his  supper,  and 
hurriedly  doing  the  chores,  he  hitched  Fan  into 
the  old  wagon  and  drove  back  to  finish  out  his 
call  on  Sophy,  as  he  told  his  mother.  That  good 
woman  said  to  herself,  as  she  locked  up  and  went 
to  bed,  at  early  candle  light,  "I  vum,  'f  he  hain't 
started  out  'n  airnest ! ' ' 

Sam  and  Dick  slept  in  the  open  chamber  in 
the  ell,  and  long  after  they  were  supposed  to 
be  sound  asleep,  they  crept  noiselessly  down  the 
back  stairs,  tip-toed  across  the  kitchen  and  out 
round  the  corner  of  the  house,  under  the  parlor 
windows,  but  the  green  paper  shades  were  down 
tight,  and  reflected  no  shadows.  Softly  the 
boys  stole  upstairs  again  and  tumbled  into  bed. 

"How  sh'd  you  like  to  be  ridin'  out  with  yer 
best  gal  an'  git  ketched  in  a  cyclone?"  giggled 
Sam. 

"Guess  we'd  got  ketched  in  a  cyclone  'f  dad 
'd  knowed  't  we'd  been  in  swimmin'  Sunday," 
answered  Dick. 


Caught  in  a  Cyclone.  57 

'  '  Our  Soph  's  got  a  feller,  's  true  's  you  live,  '  ' 
yawned  Sam,  and  dropped  off  to  sleep. 

Sam  was  right  in  his  surmises,  for  Luther  con 
tinued  to  spend  his  Sunday  evenings  with  So- 


One  afternoon,  when  his  mother  and  sister  had 
gone  strawberrying,  the  mischievous  Dick  went 
into  the  parlor  and  punched  a  hole  in  the  paper 
curtain,  at  the  window  next  the  orchard.  The 
next  Sunday  night  the  boys  climbed  out  on  the 
roof  of  the  shed,  dropped  down  into  the  grass, 
and  crept  along  to  the  parlor  window.  For 
about  fifteen  minutes  they  took  turns  peeping  in 
through  the  hole  in  the  curtain,  but  the  couple 
inside  were  simply  conversing  in  a  very  staid 
and  proper  manner. 

"There  they  set,  straight  's  two  sticks,  a- 
holdin'  on  t'  the  old  photy  graph  album!"  im 
patiently  exclaimed  Sam.  "This  hain't  no  fun. 
Come  on!  Let's  go  back  to  bed." 

Luther  had  said  to  Sophy,  "The  hot  weather 
's  a-takin'  holt  o'  mother  more  'n  common  this 
year,  but  I  guess  she  can  git  along  whilst  the 
Fourth."  And  so  the  day  was  set. 

Mrs.  Abe  Johnson,  the  nearest  neighbor,  as 
soon  as  she  heard  the  news,  dropped  in  to  talk  it 
over  with  Sophy's  mother.  "  'Pears  to  me 
they've  made  quick  work  on  't,  "  said  she. 


58  Caught  in   a   Cyclone. 

"Guess  Luther  's  a-raakin'  up  fer  lost  time. 
S'pose  his  mother  needs  help,  long  's  they  hev 
work  folks  in  hayin'  time.  They  say  the  ole 
lady  's  a  leetle  diffikilt.  but  Sophy  's  so  quiet 
most  proberble  they'll  git  along  middlin'  well, 
an'  Luther  has  the  name  o'  bein'  a  good  per- 
vider.  You're  pleased  with  it,  hain't  ye?"  and 
she  drew  a  melancholy  sigh. 

' '  I  guess  anybody  'd  be  proud  to  git  into  that 
fam'ly, "  answered  Mrs.  Goodwin,  with  a  toss  of 
her  head.  "One  o'  Luther's  great  grandfathers 
on  his  mother's  side  was  governor  o'  the  state." 
And  poor  little  Mrs.  Johnson  sighed  again,  for 
she  had  an  only  daughter,  too,  and  hers  ' '  hadn  't 
married  well." 

On  the  glorious  Fourth  of  July.  Sophy,  in  a 
pretty  white  muslin  dress  and  a  white  leghorn 
hat  with  white  ribbons  and  a  long  white  feather, 
came  out  to  meet  Luther,  who  had  just  driven 
up  with  Charlie,  whose  proudly  arched  neck 
wore  the  waviest  of  manes.  The  buggy  had  been 
repaired  by  honest  Zeke  Felch,  the  wheelwright, 
who  had  said,  "I'll  warrant  it  jest  as  good  's 
new. ' ' 

As  they  drove  along  the  beautiful  river  road 
towards  Elder  Abbott's,  they  spoke  of  that  Sun 
day  night  when  they  were  overtaken  by  the 
storm. 


Caught  in  a  Cyclone.  59 

"I  come  pretty  nigh  a-losin'  ye,  right  in  the 
fust  on  't,  didn  't  I  ? "  said  Luther. 

' '  I  guess  we  '11  never  forget  the  cyclone, ' '  re 
sponded  Sophy. 

That  evening  the  good  neighbors  gathered  at 
the  Sargent  homestead  to  congratulate  the 
newly  married  couple,  for  there  hadn't  been  a 
wedding  in  the  neighborhood  "since  they  didn't 
know  when."  The  band  boys  came  up  from 
the  Corner  and  played  a  serenade,  then  all  were 
treated  to  lemonade  and  cake,  each  young  girl 
keeping  a  piece  of  the  wedding  cake  to  put  un 
der  her  pillow  and  dream  on. 

A  few  of  the  friends  brought  some  modest 
gifts  to  the  bride,  but  little  Susie  Perry's  pres 
ent  delighted  her  most  of  all.  It  was  a  small 
black  kitten,  and  his  name  was  Cyclone. 


I. 


THEIR  OTHER  MOTHER. 

"School  is  dismissed!"  said  the  master,  and 
the  troop  of  boys  and  girls,  dinner-pails  in  hand, 
swarmed  out  of  the  old  red  school-house  on  Carr 
Hill. 

When  the  schoolmaster  was  left  alone,  he  sat 
down  behind  his  desk,  placed  his  elbows  on  the 
top  of  it  and  dropped  his  face  into  his  hands. 
He  had  assumed  this  attitude  so  often  that  his 
coat  sleeves  were  almost  worn  through.  He  was 
trying  very  hard  to  solve  a  difficult  problem, 
a  question  that  had  perplexed  him  for  months. 
He  knew  his  Colburn's  Mental  Arithmetic  from 
cover  to  cover,  but  that  knowledge  did  not  help 
him  the  least  in  this  case.  "Lucy  or  Ruth, 
which  shall  it  be?"  That  was  the  question. 

It  was  one  of  those  short  days,  early  in  Jan 
uary,  and  there  had  been  a  heavy  snow-storm  the 
night  before.  In  the  morning  the  men  were  on 
hand  with  their  ox-teams  to  break  out  the  roads, 
and  the  children  had  a  ride  to  school  on  the 
great  sleds,  but  they  were  allowed  to  trudge 


62  Their  Other  Mother. 

home  by  themselves  at  night,  although  the  trav 
eling  was  "pretty  loose." 

The  boys  had  their  long  pants  tied  down  tight 
around  their  ankles  with  strong  strings.  They 
wore  warm  spencers  buttoned  up  to  their  chins, 
bright-colored  tippets  wound  around  their  necks 
and  home-made  caps  drawn  over  their  ears. 
Their  woolen  mittens  were  knit  in  various  de 
signs,  some  in  tiny  stripes  of  blue  and  white, 
with  tufted  wrists,  and  others  in  the  more  in 
tricate  fox  and  geese  pattern.  The  girls  had 
"old  foot'n's"  drawn  over  their  stout  shoes. 
They  were  clad  in  checked  woolen  dresses  and 
heavy  shawls,  which  were  mostly  of  the  change 
able  red  and  green,  or  blue  and  yellow  center 
and  striped  border  style,  and  had  descended  to 
the  wearer  from  some  older  member  of  the  fam 
ily.  Their  ears  and  necks  were  protected  by 
their  large  pumpkin  hoods,  and  many  of  the 
older  ones  wore  white  mittens  knit  of  very  fine 
yarn,  or  in  fancy  stitches,  and  proudly  displayed 
as  their  own  work.  The  smaller  children  had  at 
tached  to  the  wrists  of  their  mittens,  which  were 
chiefly  red  or  some  combination  of  red  and  white, 
striped  or  dotted,  a  long  cord  that  went  around 
the  neck.  This  was  a  safeguard  against  the  dan 
ger  of  separation,  which  constantly  threatened 
such  little  mates. 


Their  Other  Mother.  63 

As  the  merry  company  went  along,  they  shouted 
and  pelted  each  other 's  backs  with  snowballs,  and 
"made  their  images"  in  the  soft  snowbanks  be 
side  the  road,  while  some  of  the  larger  boys 
caught  the  little  girls  and  washed  their  faces  in 
the  new  snow  until  their  cheeks  glowed  like  roses. 
When  they  reached  a  lane  leading  to  a  great  two- 
story,  yellow  house,  the  Abbott  children,  Benny 
and  Sarah,  stopped  and  the  others  plodded  on. 

Lorenzo  Abbott  had  the  name  of  being  the 
thriftiest  farmer  in  the  neighborhood,  and  his 
children  were  brought  up  to  work.  It  was  not 
long  before  Benny  had  on  his  old  jacket  and 
was  filling  the  big  wood-box,  whistling  as  he 
went  back  and  forth  from  the  kitchen  to  the 
wood-shed.  Sarah,  meanwhile,  had  tied  on  a  big 
checked  apron  and  was  setting  the  table.  First 
she  filled  the  apple-sauce  bowl  with  frozen  boiled 
cider  apple-sauce  from  the  great  firkin  in  the 
buttery  and  set  it  on  the  back  of  the  stove  to 
thaw.  Then  she  brought  out  the  cold  baked 
beans,  for  Uncle  Ben  liked  them,  and  cut  the 
"riz"  bread  in  thick  slices,  and  the  cheese 
in  little  squares.  She  put  a  ball  of  butter  in  the 
little  blue  butter-plate  that  was  Grandmother 
Turner's,  and  set  the  pumpkin  pie  in  the  stove 
oven  and  the  tea  ' '  a-steepin ', ' '  while  her  mother 
was  busy  frying  the  pancakes. 


64  Their  Other  Mother. 

It  was  dark  when  Uncle  Ben  got  home  from 
school.  They  heard  him  stamping  his  feet  in 
the  entry  and  brushing  the  snow  from  his  boots 
with  the  broom. 

"Had  to  keep  somebody  after  school,  didn't 
ye?"  asked  Mrs.  Abbott,  as  the  teacher  entered. 

"No,"  replied  Ben,  lighting  a  candle  in  one 
of  the  brass  candlesticks  that  stood  on  the  high 
mantel,  "I  was  working  on  a  sum."  Then  he 
went  "up  chamber"  to  his  room.  In  a  few  min 
utes  he  came  down,  wearing  a  false  white  shirt 
front,  carefully  fitted  over  his  plaid  flannel  shirt, 
a  new  paper  collar,  and  a  bright  blue  necktie. 
He  had  on  his  best  coat  and  over  his  arm  hung 
his  schoolcoat,  "Jane,"  said  he  to  his  sister, 
"this  coat  seems  to  be  giving  out  on  the  elbows. 
I  wonder  if  you  can 't  darn  it  a  little  ? ' ' 

"What,  that  hain't  come  to  mendin'  soon  's 
this,  I  hope?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Abbott. 

A  pair  of  Sunday  boots  were  quietly  stood 
behind  the  stove  without  disturbing  the  slumber 
of  the  cat  or  the  dog,  and  immediately  little  Ben 
produced  the  pot  of  grease,  for  he  always  had  the 
job  of  greasing  Uncle  Ben 's  boots,  and  was  duly 
rewarded  with  a  few  coppers  to  put  into  his  bank. 

"Guess  Ruth  an'  Lucy  's  a-goin'  to  have 
comp'ny  ag'in  tonight,"  he  slyly  whispered  to 
Sarah,  who  answered  by  a  suppressed  giggle. 


Their  Other  Mother.  65 

"S'pose  you're  goin'  to  be  to  home  tonight, 
hain't  ye,  Ben?"  asked  Mr.  Abbott,  giving  his 
wife  a  knowing  look,  as  they  all  sat  down  to  the 
supper  table.  "Bill  Sanborn  's  jest  drove  along 
an'  threw  out  the  mail.  The  New  York  Ledger 
's  come.  Didn't  know  but  you'd  read  to  us  a 
little.  I  sh'd  like  to  hear  how  that  continood 
story  's  a-comin'  out." 

"Maybe  Ben  's  more  interested  in  his  own 
story  just  now,"  suggested  Mrs.  Abbott. 

"Horace  Colby's  be'n  a-helpin'  me  chop  to 
day,  up  in  the  Uncle  Sol  Wiggins  woodlot, " 
continued  Mr.  Abbott.  "Poor  Horace,  I  guess 
he  has  a  hard  time  on't.  The  place  belongs  to 
his  wife  an'  her  sister,  Susan,  you  know.  He 
says  all  't  he  owns  is  the  old  white  horse ;  every 
thing  else  is  in  their  hands  an'  him  an'  Susan 
don't  hitch.  Says  he,  'If  I  's  to  live  my  life 
over  ag'in,  I  sh'd  never  marry  two  wimmen  't 
once,  one  't  a  time  's  a  great  plenty.'  Parse 
along  that  apple  sarse,  Ben." 

Ben  Turner  had  lived  in  the  other  part  of 
the  old  house  with  his  mother  until  she  died  at 
an  advanced  age.  Since  the  mother's  death,  he 
had  lived  in  his  sister  Jane's  family,  and,  al 
though  they  were  all  very  fond  of  "Uncle  Ben," 
still  he  wanted  a  home  of  his  own. 

Down  on  the  "South  Road"  lived  Lucy  Pierce 


66  Their  Other  Mother. 

and  Euth  Fellows.  Lucy  owned  the  old  'Squire 
Pierce  place,  one  of  the  best  farms  in  town,  and 
Ruth  was  a  sort  of  adopted  sister,  who  had  lived 
there  ever  since  she  was  a  little  girl.  Lucy's 
father  and  mother  had  died  a  few  years  before 
and  quite  recently  the  "Uncle  Joseph,"  who 
had  always  lived  in  the  family,  so  now  the  two 
girls  were  left  alone.  Lucy,  whose  health  had 
always  been  delicate,  sang  and  played  on  the  me- 
lodeon,  while  the  handsome,  rosy-cheeked  Ruth 
did  most  of  the  work. 

Ben  Turner  had  been  going  there  evening  after 
evening,  trying  to  make  up  his  mind.  Could 
Lucy  keep  house  without  Ruth?  Would  Ruth 
leave  Lucy?  Perhaps  so,  but  then  there  was 
Lucy's  money  that  would  be  very  convenient, 
and  he  did  so  love  to  hear  her  sing.  Evidently, 
if  he  wanted  money,  accomplishments  and  a  good 
housekeeper,  he  must  take  the  two,  but  which 
should  be  Mrs.  Turner.  Of  course  it  must  be 
Lucy.  He  must  ask  her  tonight,  and  he  felt 
reasonably  sure  of  his  answer. 

It  was  apparent  that  the  girls  were  expecting 
company  that  evening,  for  a  bright  fire  blazed  in 
the  west  room  and  before  the  fire  sat  Ruth  with 
her  knitting,  and  Lucy  holding  Buff,  the  old  yel 
low  cat.  When  Ben  Turner  entered  they  were 
earnestly  discussing  a  letter  that  Ruth  had  re- 


Their  Other  Mother.  67 

ceived  that  afternoon.  Her  Uncle  Jack,  a  sea 
captain,  who  was  supposed  to  have  been  lost 
at  sea,  some  twenty  years  ago,  had  returned  to 
his  native  land.  His  first  thought  was  to  look 
up  the  little  niece  that  went  to  live  with 
"Square  Purse's  folks."  At  a  tavern,  in  a  dis 
tant  seaport  town  he  had  had  a  "shock,"  so  he 
had  dictated  a  letter  to  his  niece,  Ruth,  asking 
if  she  were  living  and  free  to  do  so,  would  she 
come  to  care  for  her  helpless  old  uncle.  He 
might  need  her  for  a  short  time  only,  or  it 
might  be  for  a  year  or  two.  She  should  be 
well  paid  for  her  services,  and  at  the  end  the 
property  that  was  left  should  be  hers. 

What  should  she  do?  She  did  not  want  to 
leave  Lucy  and  her  uncle  was  not  able  to  come 
there.  Ben  thought  he  saw  a  way  out  of  the 
difficulty,  but  waited  for  a  favorable  opportunity 
to  propose  his  plan.  The  evening  was  spent 
much  as  usual,  Ben  popping  corn  and  telling 
stories,  and  Lucy  singing  his  favorite  songs. 
Then  Ruth  went  down  cellar  to  get  some  apples. 
She  purposely  used  as  much  time  as  possible  in 
selecting  the  great  golden  pippins  and  the  hand 
some  red  Baldwins,  and  polished  them  until 
they  looked  like  an  exhibit  at  a  county  fair. 
When  Ruth  returned,  as  she  suspected  it  might 


68  Their  Other  Mother. 

be,  it  was  all  arranged  for  her  to  go  to  care  for 
Uncle  Jack. 

Soon  after  Ruth's  departure  Ben  and  Lucy 
were  quietly  married  and  very  cosily  settled  at 
the  old  Pierce  place.  School  had  closed,  and 
Ben  having  settled  the  great  question  of  his 
life,  or  "figured  out  the  answer  to  his  sum,"  as 
he  told  his  sister,  decided  to  give  up  teaching  and 
turn  his  attention  wholly  to  farming.  The  schol 
ars,  however,  remembered  their  teacher  pleas 
antly,  and  one  moonlight  night  they  came  down 
with  fifes,  drums,  dinner  horns  and  tin  pans,  and 
gave  him  a  rousing  serenade.  On  being  invited  in, 
one  of  the  number  presented  a  marvelous  pho 
tograph  album  holding  four  pictures  on  a  page. 
Then  the  merry  crowd  were  treated  to  apples  and 
cider,  and  each  had  a  slice  of  the  big  wedding 
cake  that  Sister  Jane  had  made  for  the  bride. 

For  nearly  two  years  Ben  and  Lucy  Turner 
lived  very  happily  together.  As  Lucy  was  not 
strong  enough  to  do  anything  hard,  her  great 
est  trials  were  her  experiences  with  various  hired 
girls,  for  she  never  found  anyone  who  could  do 
the  work  as  Euth  had  done  it.  Throughout  the 
neighborhood,  however,  she  was  esteemed  for 
her  kindness  of  heart  and  for  her  good  deeds, 
particularly  to  the  poor,  the  aged  and  the  sick. 
One  chill  December  day,  when  she  was  return- 


Their  Other  Mother.  69 

ing  from  a  visit  to  an  old  bed-ridden  woman, 
she  took  a  violent  cold  that  ended  in  quick  con 
sumption.  She  had  often  said,  jokingly,  "If  I 
should  die  you  must  marry  Ruth,  unless  some 
one  else  gets  her  first."  So,  when  it  became 
evident  that  she  was  really  going  away  from 
Ben,  she  asked  him  to  promise  her  that  he  would 
sometime,  if  it  were  possible,  bring  back  Ruth 
to  take  her  place  in  the  old  home. 

When  it  was  all  over,  poor  Ben  was  more 
lonely,  disconsolate  and  altogether  wretched 
than  he  had  ever  supposed  it  possible  for  a  mor 
tal  to  feel.  "The  Widder  Hunt"  kept  house 
for  him  a  while,  then  her  daughter,  Belinda, 
came  down  with  the  measles.  "It  beats  all," 
said  Mrs.  Hunt.  "I  never  c'd  go  anywheres 
but  suthin  'd  al'ays  turn  up  with  B'lind'. 
There  hain't  be'n  no  measles  round  here,  but 
I'll  bate  she  ketched  'em  o'  somebody  t'  the 
Bridge  the  day  she  went  off  up  there  to  do  her 
tradin'.  'Twill  be  jes'  two  weeks  come  tomor- 
rer.  They's  apt  ter  go  hard  with  grown  folks, 
an'  she's  so  dark-complected  I'm  afraid  they 
won't  come  out  well.  Time  she's  up  an'  round 
the  childern  '11  all  be  down  flat."  When  Mrs. 
Hunt  left  to  care  for  her  sick  daughter,  Aunt 
Nabby  Smith  came  to  take  her  place. 

' '  Gals  to  do  housework  is  dretful  scurse.  They 


70  Their  Other  Mother. 

all  wants  to  be  a-goin'  off  down  below  t'  work 
in  the  factory,"  said  she.  Aunty  Nabby  was 
nearly  seventy-three.  ' '  I  'm  a-livin '  on  borrered 
time,  I  know,  but  I'm  a-goin'  to  make  the  most 
on  't, "  she  told  Ben,  and  as  she  was  quite  vig 
orous,  she  did  very  well  until  one  day  she  fell 
down  the  back  stairs  and  broke  her  arm,  and 
had  to  go  back  to  her  son's.  The  next  house 
keeper  was  pretty  little  Myra  Newcomb.  She 
was  only  eighteen  but  smart  as  a  trap.  "Ben  's 
solemn  's  a  graveyard  all  the  time  an'  I  just 
can't  stand  it  any  longer,"  was  what  she  told 
Tom  Sanders,  her  lover,  when  she  had  been  there 
a  few  weeks,  so  the  next  time  Tom  called,  Myra 
rode  away  with  him  to  the  minister's,  and  Ben 
was  left  alone  again.  Finally,  Sister  Jane  pre 
vailed  upon  him  to  sell  off  the  stock,  close  up 
the  house  and  come  back  to  them.  Thus  more 
than  a  year  and  a  half  had  passed  away,  and 
folks  wondered  if  Ben  Turner  would  ever  seem 
like  his  old  self  again. 

At  the  time  of  Lucy's  death,  Uncle  Jack  re 
quired  Ruth's  constant  attention,  and  a  few 
weeks  later  he  died.  Ben  knew  that  Ruth  lived 
alone  in  the  little  cottage  that  her  uncle  had  left 
to  her,  and  that  she  sometimes  went  out  doing 
plain  sewing,  for  she  was  very  skillful  with  her 
needle,  but  Ben  did  not  know  that  a  nice  bach- 


Their  Other  Mother.  71 

elor  neighbor  occasionally  called.  Folks  said 
that  he  was  rich,  that  he  owned  the  Sea  King 
on  which  he  sometimes  made  a  voyage.  He 
would  gladly  have  been  more  than  friendly  and 
tried  to  interest  Ruth  in  a  trip  around  the  world. 
She,  however,  realized  that  she  had  always  cared 
for  Ben  Turner  more  than  she  was  willing  to 
admit  to  herself  even,  so  she  patiently  waited. 

One  evening  Ben  decided  to  write  to  Ruth  and 
tell  her  of  Lucy's  dying  wish.  He  did  not 
want  to  post  his  letter  in  the  village  office  lest 
the  postmaster  might  notice  it  and  have  his  sus 
picions  aroused,  but  he  excited  great  curiosity 
in  the  Abbott  family  the  next  day  by  driving 
off  to  a  neighboring  town.  For  the  next  three 
weeks  he  watched  anxiously  for  an  answer  and 
he  had  about  made  up  his  mind  to  write  again, 
for  he  could  not  believe  Ruth  would  treat  the 
matter  so  indifferently,  if  she  had  received  his 
letter.  Meanwhile  he  was  so  absent-minded  that 
he  was  more  of  a  puzzle  to  the  Abbott  children 
than  ever. 

The  postoffice  was  in  the  righthand  corner  as 
one  entered  the  village  store.  On  the  shelves 
beyond  stood  rows  of  glass  cans  filled  with  red 
and  white  striped  sticks  of  candy,  gum  drops 
and  peppermints.  Next  came  bars  of  various 
kinds  of  soap  and  boxes  of  tobacco.  In  the  la- 


72  Their  Other  Mother. 

beled  drawers  beneath  were  tea,  coffee  and 
spices,  cream  of  tartar,  saleratus  and  starch. 
The  scales  stood  on  the  counter  near  the  center 
and  at  the  end  was  the  cheese  box,  with  the 
cracker  barrel,  hospitably  open,  just  underneath, 
and  in  line  were  the  sugar  barrels,  the  white, 
the  brown  and  the  maple  with  its  tempting 
lumps.  On  the  side  opposite  the  postoffice  was 
the  long  showcase  containing  neckties,  gloves 
and  handkerchiefs  of  all  grades,  from  the  coarse 
red  cotton  to  the  silk  bandanna,  also  various 
fancy  articles.  The  shelves  behind  were  filled 
with  boxes  of  paper  collars  and  rows  of  calico 
and  delaine,  cambric,  silesia  and  factory  cloth. 
There  were  hats  and  caps,  women's  shoes  and 
men's  long-legged  boots,  and  in  a  corner  there 
were  bundles  of  palmleaf  and  a  pile  of  braided 
hats.  Folded  up  on  a  long  table  was  an  assort 
ment  of  men's  ready-made  clothing,  protected 
from  dust  by  a  cambric  cover.  The  shelves 
nearby  were  loaded  with  crockery,  and  the  space 
beyond  was  divided  into  little  compartments  filled 
with  bolts,  screws  and  hinges,  door-latches  and 
cupboard  catches,  while  in  a  row  of  open  nail 
kegs  underneath  could  be  seen  the  different  sizes 
of  nails.  A  glimpse  into  the  back  store  showed 
other  shelves,  sagging  with  the  weight  of  stone 
jars,  brown  earthen  milk  pans,  speckled  pud- 


Their  Other  Mother.  73 

ding  dishes,  yellow  mixing  bowls  and  blue-edged 
pie  plates,  while  hanging  from  the  beams  over 
head  were  jugs  and  water  pails.  There  were 
barrels  of  flour  and  bushel  baskets  heaped  with 
bunches  of  dried  apple,  the  shriveled  quarters 
dangling  from  the  broken  strings,  and  near  the 
scale,  where  folks  liked  to  step  on  and  get 
weighed,  was  the  pile  of  salt  fish.  It  was  the 
habit  of  customers  to  help  themselves  to  a  bit 
of  fish,  but  it  was  not  considered  etiquette  to 
sample  one  that  had  not  already  been  somewhat 
stripped,  as  the  notice  tacked  on  the  wall  plainly 
showed.  This  was  a  piece  of  white  pasteboard 
on  which  in  large  black  letters  one  read  the 
statement,  "It  is  mean  to  tear  a  whole  fish." 
Beyond  was  the  large  bin  filled  with  coarse  salt 
and  above  it  the  pen  where  the  paper  rags  were 
kept,  a  partition  separating  the  white  from  the 
brown. 

Around  the  great  box  stove  near  the  center 
of  the  store  was  the  usual  group  of  loafers.  Be- 
niah  Dexter,  an  old  man  with  long,  white  beard, 
was  telling  stories  of  the  times  when  he  drove 
the  stage,  whittling  as  he  talked.  Cy  Slocum,  a 
stout,  red-faced  man,  was  listening.  Cyrus  was 
a  horse  doctor  by  profession,  but  most  of  his 
comfortable  property  had  been  acquired  in  trad 
ing  horses.  Jerry  Foss  had  just  come  in  and 


74  Their  Other  Mother. 

was  perched  on  a  high  stool  in  front  of  the 
stove  with  his  damp  feet  on  the  hearth.  Jerry's 
wife  kept  boarders,  and  his  part  of  the  work 
was  to  bring  in  the  supplies,  for  which  she  paid 
the  bills.  Uncle  "Samwel"  Hackett  was  tipped 
back  reading  a  paper.  He  was  an  elderly  man, 
"clever"  but  not  very  energetic.  In  some  unac 
countable  way  he  had  persuaded  the  village 
dressmaker,  Cynthy  Thompson,  who  was  some 
twenty  years  his  junior,  to  marry  him  and  sup 
port  him.  Cynthy,  of  course,  heard  all  the  town 
gossip,  and  Uncle  Samwel's  chief  occupation  was 
reporting  it  at  the  store.  People  kept  coming 
to  the  office,  for  this  was  paper  day  and  every 
body  was  eager  to  get  the  Democrat,  in  which 
they  found  all  the  county  news  and  many  items 
of  interest  from  all  over  the  state.  Some 
stopped  to  speak  a  few  minutes  with  the  group 
by  the  stove. 

' '  Look  a-here ! ' '  called  out  Uncle  Samwel  from 
behind  his  paper,  ' '  Ruth  Fellers  's  married ! ' ' 

"Ye  don't  say!"  exclaimed  Jerry  Foss. 
"Everybody  had  her  picked  out  fer  Ben 
Turner." 

"Lor',  yes,"  said  Uncle  Samwel.  "I  s'pected 
'twas  all  cut  'n'  dried  'n'  ready  to  light  soon  's 
his  year  was  up." 

"Wall,"  continued  Jerry,  "mebbe  she  didn't 


Their  Other  Mother.  75 

want  to  play  no  second  fiddle."  He  had  not 
forgotten  the  Sunday  night  when  Ruth  refused 
to  let  him  see  her  home  from  prayer-meeting, 
just  after  Ella  May  Parker  had  given  him  the 
mitten. 

"She  always  was  consid'ble  of  a  high-step 
per,  ' '  remarked  Cy  Slocum,  as  he  recalled  a  sim 
ilar  experience. 

' '  My  cousin,  Brasilia  Veasey,  't  nussed  her  in 
her  last  sicknes,  told  me  't  was  Lucy 's  request, ' ' 
put  in  Cap'n  Clark,  who  was  standing  behind 
the  stove  funnel. 

"Ben  was  all  broke  up  over  losin'  of  her 
an'  he  don't  begin  t'  set  up  'n'  take  notice  's 
quick  's  some  on  'em  does,"  observed  Beniah 
Dexter. 

Just  then  the  door  opened  and  in  walked  Ben 
Turner  himself.  As  he  came  along  and  set  a 
sugar  bucket  on  the  counter  and  an  oil  can  on 
the  floor  near  by,  said  Uncle  Samwel  in  a  low 
tone,  "Speakin'  o'  angels,  you're  sure  to  hear 
'em  a-flappin'  of  their  wings,"  then,  in  a  louder 
voice,  "How  d'  do1?  We  was  jest  a-wond'rin'  '£ 
you'd  heerd  the  news  'bout  Ruth  Fellers." 

' '  No, ' '  responded  Ben,  turning  very  white  and 
taking  hold  of  the  counter,  as  a  reason  for  his 
unanswered  letter  flashed  through  his  mind. 

"She  hain't  dead,  only  married,"  Uncle  Sam 


76  Their  Other  Mother. 

wel  hastened  to  add.  "It  's  in  this  'ere  paper 
that  was  sent  to  my  woman  from  a  second  cousin 
o'  hern  't  lives  down  on  the  coast,  she  't  was  El- 
viry  Flanders  an'  uster  work  up  ter  John  Pet- 
tingill's  on  Bean  Hill.  'T  last  accounts  she  was 
the  Widder  Small  and  was  a-keepin'  house  fer 
a  man  named  Isr'el  Ware.  Seems  she  's  a-roped 
'im  in,  fer  here's  their  marriage,  marked  with 
a  blue  lead  pencil.  This  's  her  third  ventur'. 
She's  kind  o'  subjic'  ter  gettin'  married,  same  's 
ol'  Orrin  Peters  said  his  fam'ly  was  ter  the 
measles.  Lookin'  'long  down  the  marriages,  lo 
an'  behold!  there  was  Ruth  Fellerses'  name. 
She's  married  to  Captain  Augustus  Robin 
son,  and  they've  gone  on  a  voyage  to  Spain,  it 
says. ' ' 

Ben  got  his  mail  and  started  toward  the  door, 
when  Dick  Wells,  the  clerk,  shouted,  "Hain't 
you  goin'  to  take  your  sugar  'n'  carryseen?" 
He  stepped  back  for  them,  then  quietly  went 
out. 

"Turribly  cut  up,  wa'nt  he?"  remarked 
Jerry. 

"I  sh'd  say  he  was,"  responded  Cy.  "He 
didn  't  hardly  know  whether  he  was  foot  or  horse 
back." 

As  Ben  drove  slowly  home,  he  said  to  himself, 
"Married  to  a  sea  captain!  Gone  to  the  ends 


Their  Other  Mother.  77 

of  the  earth  !  And  she  didn  't  even  send  me  her 
wedding  card. ' ' 

The  Abbotts  grew  still  more  concerned  about 
Uncle  Ben,  for  he  seemed  gloomier  than  ever. 
As  he  said  nothing  about  what  he  had  heard  at 
the  store,  they  did  not  get  the  news  until  the 
next  Sunday,  between  meetings,  when  it  was  the 
general  topic  of  conversation. 

' '  That, ' '  said  Jane  to  Lorenzo,  as  they  walked 
up  the  aisle  together  to  take  their  places  for  the 
afternoon  service,  "accounts  for  his  bein'  so  aw 
ful  down  'n  the  mouth  for  the  last  two  three 
days." 

Just  before  Ruth  Fellows  that  was  stepped  on 
board  the  ship,  a  letter  was  handed  her  by  a 
friend,  who  had  come  to  see  her  set  sail.  In  the 
confusion,  however,  the  letter  was  laid  down  and 
forgotten.  For  the  first  two  weeks  of  the  voy 
age  the  captain's  young  wife  was  too  seasick  to 
take  much  interest  in  her  surroundings,  but 
when  she  was  recovering,  one  day  she  came 
across  the  letter  directed,  in  an  unfamiliar  hand, 
to  Ruth  Fellows.  On  reading  it,  she  found  that 
it  was  not  designed  for  herself  at  all,  but  was, 
doubtless,  of  great  importance  to  some  other 
Ruth  Fellows.  As  soon  as  there  was  an  op 
portunity,  the  letter  was  sent  back,  but  it  was 


78  Their  Other  Mother. 

many  weeks  before  it  found  the  lady  for  whom 
it  was  intended. 

Great  was  the  surprise  of  Ben  Turner  when  he 
received  the  answer  to  his  letter,  written  so  long 
ago.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  Lucy  herself  had 
come  back  to  him.  ' '  The  sea,  at  least, ' '  he  said, 
"if  not  the  grave,  has  given  up  its  dead."  As 
soon  as  he  could  get  away,  he  started  for  the 
seaport  town,  where  he  found  Ruth  awaiting  his 
coming  and  ready  to  return  with  him  as  the  sec 
ond  Mrs.  Turner,  to  live  again  at  the  Pierce 
place. 

Among  the  new  things  that  found  their  way 
into  the  old  house  with  the  return  of  Ruth  was 
a  large  crayon  portrait  that  hung  on  the  wall 
in  the  west  room.  It  was  an  enlarged  copy  of 
an  old  daguerreotype  of  Lucy,  whose  memory  in 
that  household  was  ever  held  sacred. 

One  of  the  first  things  that  little  Lucy  Turner 
could  remember  was  being  held  up  to  that  pic 
ture  and  told  that  it  was  her  father's  other 
wife,  whose  name  she  bore.  Her  father's  other 
wife,  she  supposed,  must  be  her  other  mother. 
That  was  the  name  she  gave  to  the  picture  and 
by  that  name  it  was  always  called. 

"Uzzer  muzzer"  were  the  first  words  that 
Baby  Jack  learned  to  lisp,  and  when  company 
came  to  the  house  the  children  were  very  proud 


Their  Other  Mother.  79 

of  showing  the  picture  of  their  ' '  other  mother. ' ' 
Together  they  played  for  hours  around  her  grave 
in  the  old  burying-yard  near  by,  and  through  the 
long  summers,  for  many  years,  until  they  left 
the  old  home  for  homes  of  their  own,  the  chil- 
ren  of  Ruth  never  failed  to  keep  fresh  flowers  on 
the  grave  of  Lucy,  their  "other  mother." 


NATHAN'S   WIFE. 

"Seems  to  me  your  cold  's  worse,  mother," 
remarked  Nathan  Marston,  as  he  passed  his  plate 
for  a  second  piece  of  pie.  "This  is  a  grand, 
good  apple  pie,"  continued  he,  "but  I'm  afraid 
you've  ketched  more  cold  standin'  in  that  chilly 
pantry  a-rollin'  out  pie  crust." 

"I  fetched  the  cake-board  out  on'  t'  the 
kitchen  table,  but  the  flour  did  feel  kind  o '  cold 
to  my  hands, ' '  replied  Mrs.  Marston. 

"Well,  you'll  have  to  be  awful  careful,"  cau 
tioned  the  son,  "or  you'll  be  down  sick.  There's 
a  lot  of  influenzy  'round.  I  see  the  doctor 
drivin'  up  by  this  forenoon,  but  he  was  goin'  so 
fast  I  didn't  have  a  chance  to  holler  an'  ask  who 
was  sick." 

"I  s'pose  't  was  the  young  man,"  said  Mrs. 
Marston. 

"Yes,  Doctor  John,"  was  the  reply.  "He 
has  the  heft  of  the  practice  now.  The  old  doc 
tor  don't  visit  patients  much." 

"John  's  got  a  dretful  pretty  sort  of  a  little 
woman  for  a  wife.  He  met  with  her  when  he 
was  off  a-takin'  of  his  medical  lectur's,  so  his 

6 


82  Nathan's   Wife. 

mother  told  me  when  I  was  talkin'  with  her 
down  to  Elder  Batchelder's  donation." 

"Yes,  the  fellers  hev  all  got  married  but 
me, ' '  said  Nathan  soberly. 

"Wall,  ye  don't  need  no  wife  's  long  's  ye  hev 
me  ter  keep  house  fer  ye,"  responded  the  old 
lady.  Then  she  quickly  changed  the  subject, 
for  this  was  a  sore  topic,  and  one  that  she 
avoided  discussing.  "Ye 're  a-goin'  ter  haul 
wood  down  t'  the  village  this  arternune,  hain't 
ye?  'Cause  'f  ye  be  I've  got  some  arrants  ter 
send  by  ye  t'  the  store." 

"Yes,"  was  the  answer,  "I  promised  Mr. 
Bixby,  the  new  tavern-keeper,  that  I'd  git  him 
down  a  cord  this  week,  sure,  an'  I  thought  I'd 
best  go  today  whilst  the  sleddin '  's  good,  for  fear 
there  might  come  a  thaw  an'  sp'ile  it." 

"Here's  the  aigs,"  said  Mrs.  Marston,  pro 
ducing  an  old  battered  ten-quart  pail.  "I 
packed  'em  in  bran  an'  I  guess  they'll  ride  all 
right  'f  you're  keerful.  There's  three  derzern 
an'  eight.  Wonder  what  aigs  is  fetchin'  now! 
They're  ruther  skurse  this  time  o'  year  an' 
prob'ly  Carter  's  payin'  a  shillin'  't  least.  I'm 
'bout  out  o'  tea,  an'  ye  may  git  me  a  quarter  of 
oolong  an '  a  quarter  of  souchong ;  then  I  want  a 
couple  yards  o'  dark  caliker  fer  an  apern,  small 
figger  an'  suthin  't  won't  fade  all  out  fust  time 


Nathan's   Wife.  83 

it's  washed.  If  there's  any  more  a-comin'  to 
me  I'll  take  it  up  in  a  few  cents  wuth  o'  pep'- 
mints  an'  a  leetle  han'ful  o'  cloves." 

As  she  wearily  gathered  up  the  dishes  and 
placed  them  in  the  dish-pan,  from  the  window 
in  front  of  the  sink,  she  saw  Nathan  start  off 
for  the  village  with  his  load  of  wood.  She  heard 
the  crunching  of  the  sled  runners  in  the  snow 
and  watched  the  oxen  as  they  made  the  turn  at 
the  gate  and  went  slowly  down  the  hill  and  out 
of  sight.  It  was  a  beautiful  winter  afternoon 
and  the  white-crusted  fields,  with  their  criss 
crossing  of  gray  stone  walls,  glistened  in  the  sun 
shine. 

Mrs.  Marston  got  the  dishes  washed  somehow, 
then  throwing  a  heavy  shawl  over  her  she  laid 
down  on  the  kitchen  lounge  and  Sir  Thomas,  the 
old  Maltese  cat,  with  his  white  nose  tucked  under 
a  white  paw,  coiled  himself  at  her  feet. 

Across  the  road,  diagonally  from  the  Mars- 
tons',  lived  Simeon  Downes.  Simeon  worked 
out  much  of  the  time,  and  just  now  was  haul 
ing  logs  for  the  saw-mill.  As  he  required  an 
early  breakfast  and  carried  his  dinner,  Mandy, 
his  wife,  had  a  good  long  day,  and  occupied  most 
of  her  spare  time  in  binding  shoes.  She  was  sit 
ting  by  the  window  at  work  when  Nathan  went 
past,  and  said  to  herself,  "Now  Mis'  Marstin  's 


84  Nathan's    Wife. 

all  alone,  so  I'll  jes'  take  my  shoes  an'  slip  over 
an '  set  with  her  a  spell.  She  can 't  git  out  much 
an'  she  does  love  ter  hear  what  's  goin'  on 
'round."  Then  Mandy  put  in  a  stick  of  wood 
and  shut  up  the  stove,  looked  to  see  where  the 
cat  was,  and,  throwing  a  shawl  over  her  head, 
went  across  to  the  Marston  house,  going  around 
to  the  back  door  and  entering  the  kitchen,  where, 
much  to  her  surprise,  she  found  Mrs.  Marston  ly 
ing  down. 

"For  mercy's  sake!"  she  exclaimed.  "Be 
you  sick?" 

"Only  a  leetle  cold,  so  I  thought  I'd  jes'  camp 
down  here.  Take  the  rockin '-cheer.  I'm  dret- 
ful  glad  ye've  come  in.  I  guess  I'll  git  up." 

"No,  you  stay  right  where  you  be.  We  can 
talk  jest  's  well.  I  's  down  t'  the  Cotton  girls 
last  night,  an'  I've  got  a  lot  o'  news  to  tell  you." 

The  Cotton  girls  were  two  maiden  sisters  liv 
ing  in  a  one-story,  unpainted  house  in  the  out 
skirts  of  the  village.  Judith,  the  elder,  was  now 
about  eighty,  and  Polly  three  years  younger. 
Zepheniah  Cotton  had  been  a  well-to-do  cabinet 
maker,  who  had  left  to  his  family  the  home  place 
and  some  interest  money  besides.  The  widow,  a 
frail  little  woman,  who  for  years  did  not  go  be 
yond  her  own  dooryard,  outlived  her  husband 
some  twenty  years  and  died  at  the  advanced  age 


Nathan's  Wife.  85 

of  ninety-six.  Neither  of  the  daughters  had  ever 
been  strong.  Judith's  particular  affliction  was 
rheumatism  in  her  knees,  while  Polly  suffered 
at  times  with  asthma.  Judith  did  fine  needle 
work,  which  for  many  years  had  taken  the  first 
premium  at  the  county  cattle  show.  In  the 
more  prosperous  families,  the  infants,  on  state 
occasions,  were  wrapped  in  soft  blankets,  in  the 
corners  of  which  blossomed  great  roses,  and  be 
low  hung  the  long  flannel  petticoat  bordered  with 
a  marvelous  vine  where  leaves  alternated  with 
clusters  of  grapes,  all  in  white  silk  embroidery, 
the  work  of  Judith  Cotton.  The  fine  stitching 
on  the  pleated  bosoms  of  the  men's  Sunday 
shirts  was  done  by  her  skillful  fingers.  She  had 
made  the  wrought  collars  that  the  women  wore, 
fastened  with  a  great  cameo  pin,  around  the 
large  necks  of  their  best  gowns,  and  all  gar 
ments  of  importance  in  the  community  were  sent 
over  for  her  to  make  the  buttonholes.  Polly  did 
the  housework,  occupying  her  spare  time  with 
knitting  and  patchwork.  She  also  made  beau 
tiful  mats,  which  she  braided  very  fine,  shading 
the  colors. 

Some  neighbor's  boy  always  hoed  their  gar 
den  in  the  summer  and  shoveled  their  paths  in 
the  winter,  also  did  chores  for  them  and  errands 
at  the  store.  Although  they  did  not  go  about 


86  Nathan's   Wife. 

themselves,  many  people  had  the  habit  of  run 
ning  in  there,  and,  as  each  one  had  something 
to  tell,  they  were  always  well  posted  in  the  cur 
rent  gossip,  and,  as  Mandy  Downes  said,  ' '  What 
they  didn't  know  wa'n't  wurth  knowing,"  but 
some  folks  called  Mandy  pretty  newsy. 

"How  be  the  girls  this  winter?"  asked  Mrs. 
Marston. 

"Oh,  jest  the  same  as  they  al'ays  have  be'n 
ever  sence  I  c  'n  remember, ' '  replied  Mandy,  who 
was  only  fifty-five.  "Judith  was  a-tellin'  me 
'bout  Ase  Hatches'  new  wife.  He  fetched  her 
home  last  week.  She  belonged  down  in  the  lower 
part  o'  the  state,  an'  he  come  acrost  her  last 
summer,  when  he  was  off  down  there  a-vis'tin' 
'mongst  his  fust  wife's  relations.  She's  a  con 
nection  o'  hern.  Everybody  thinks  he's  waited 
a  reasonable  time,  an'  that  it's  a  very  suitable 
match.  She's  some  younger  'n  Ase,  but  she 
hain't  no  spring  chicken.  It's  better  for  the 
childern  than  's  if  he  'd  took  up  with  some  young 
flirt,  same  's  Oliver  Blake  did.  I  guess  Irene  'd 
'a '  turned  over  'n  her  grave  'f  he  had.  D '  you 
know  't  Oliver  an'  his  wife  'd  parted?  Yes, 
he's  posted  her,  an'  now  she's  tryin'  to  git  a 
bill." 

"What  d'  ye  s'pose  Rhody  Fuller  had  ter 
say  'bout  Ase  a-goin'  off  ter  git  married?"  in- 


Nathan's   Wife.  87 

quired  Mrs.  Marston.  "She  's  be'n  boss  an'  all 
hands  fer  so  long,  it'll  come  kind  o'  hard  t' 
have  ter  take  a  back  seat.  They're  a-calc 'latin' 
ter  keep  her,  hain't  they?" 

"Oh,  yes.  Good  land!  they  couldn't  spin  a 
thread  'thout  Rhody,  an '  she  sets  her  life  by  the 
boys,  though  they  do  pester  her  most  to  death, 
an'  they're  such  'normous  eaters  't  she  says  she 
sca'ce  has  a  chance  to  hang  the  cake-board  up 
over  night.  They  say  't  she  told  Ase  that  she 
sh'd  think  there  was  old  maids  'nough  nigher 
home  'thout  his  goin'  clean  off  down  to  Ippin' 
for  one.  I  shouldn't  be  a  bit  s 'prised  'f  she 
thought  she  was  goin'  to  ketch  him  herself,  but 
he'd  be  one  't  would  look  out  an'  git  in  where 
there  was  money,  an'  it's  reported  this  woman's 
had  quite  a  fortin  fall  to  her.  They  'peared  out 
last  Sunday.  You  know  I  set  in  a  wing  pew,  so 
I  see  everybody  that's  there  an'  all  that's  goin' 
on.  I  wouldn't  swap  our  pew  for  airy  one  in 
the  meetin '-house.  I  c'n  watch  'em  up  in  the 
singin '-seats  an'  see  Josiah  Winslow  noddin' 
away  with  one  arm  on  his  old  bass-viol,  an'  Mis' 
Hawkins  a-tryin'  to  keep  her  face  straight  when 
she  looks  over  to  them  Kimball  young  uns  in 
the  pew  front  o'  me.  Of  all  the  performances 
that  they  go  through,  you  never  see  the  beat. 
Their  mother  says  she  clruther  wash  than  take 


Nathan's    Wife. 

'em  to  meetin'  any  day.  'Squire  Eastman,  when 
he  hain't  a-playin'  the  seraphine,  has  his  eye  on 
that  boy  o'  hisn,  t'  see  't  he  hain't  a-readin'  dime 
novils.  Calline  Tasker  sings  the  treble  now— 
she's  be'n  off  an'  took  lessons — an'  they've  got 
the  schoolmaster  up  int'  the  seats,  too.  He  an' 
Calline  looks  't  one  another  more'n  they  doos 
t'  the  minister.  Dan 'el  Gilman  's  a-takin'  the 
lead  now  an'  you'd  jest  oughter  see  him  bite  his 
tunin'  fork  an'  beat  the  time.  When  the  folks 
stand  up  an'  turn  'round  facin'  the  singers, 
then  I  have  a  chance  to  see  all  their  new  clo'es. 
Sim  says  I  'd  oughter  think  o '  more  serious  things 
on  the  Sabbath  day,  but  I  tell  'im  I  guess  there's 
some  worldly  talk  out  in  the  horse-sheds  't  noon 
time." 

"But,  Mandy,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Marston, 
"hain't  yer  goin'  ter  tell  me  how  the  bride  was 
dressed  ? ' ' 

"My  soul  and  body!  I  come  nigh  fergittin' 
that.  Wall,  she  had  on  a  blue  an'  yeller  change 
able  silk  gown,  made  with  a  long  p'int  in  front 
an'  hooked  up  in  the  back,  an'  small  flowin' 
sleeves  with  wrought  under  sleeves.  She  wore  a 
cashmere  shawl  with  a  white  center,  an'  a  pale 
yeller  drawn-silk  bunnet,  with  white  face  flowers 
an'  white  strings.  Judith  said  her  clo'es  come 
from  Boston.  Her  gloves  were  white  kid  an' 


Nathan's  Wife.  89 

Ase,  he  had  white  gloves,  too,  an'  a  brocaded 
satin  vest,  brown  with  a  blue  sprig.  You  know 
Irene  never  was  much  fer  dress,  but  this  woman 
's  smarted  him  -right  up.  He  was  introducin' 
of  her  to  everybody,  as  proud  's  Lucifer,  an' 
when  I  come  down  the  aisle,  says  he,  'Make  you 
'quainted  with  my  wife,  Mandy. '  She  hain't 
what  you'd  call  han'some,  she's  ruther  long 
favored,  but  she's  very  pretty  appeared  an'  she 
stood  there  as  smilin'  's  a  basket  o'  chips. 

"Says  I,  'You've  got  here  jest  in  time  to  help 
us  christen  the  new  carpet.'  We'd  worked  like 
beavers  to  git  it  down  'fore  they  come.  Rhody 
was  over  an'  carpeted  their  pew  with  a  piece  't 
was  left  of  the  fore-room  carpet  that  Irene 
braided  hats  an'  bought  before  she  was  married. 
She'd  al'ays  kep'  that  strip,  put  up  with  cam- 
phire  gum,  in  a  bag  that  hung  in  the  closet 
under  the  stairs  in  the  front  entry,  an '  there  was 
jest  enough  for  the  pew.  We  laid  out  to  car 
pet  the  aisles,  all  around  the  pulpit,  an'  up  in 
the  singin '-seats,  and  what  do  you  think!  Dan 'el 
Gilman  paid  for  the  whole  on  't  up  there,  steps 
an'  all,  out  o'  his  own  pocket,  he's  so  tickled 
'cause  they've  put  him  in  chorister.  He's  made 
for  this  world  '£  he  c  'n  run  the  singin '. ' ' 

"He's  called  terrible  nippin',"  put  in  Mrs. 
Marston,  "an'  he  has  the  name  of  deac'nin'  his 


90  Nathan's   Wife. 

apples.  He  uster  go  to  our  meet'n',  but  there 
was  some  trouble  'bout  the  singin'  an'  he  went 
off  over  to  t'  other  House." 

"Most  folks  carpeted  their  pews  with  suthin 
they  had  in  the  house,  though  some  that  c'd 
'ford  it  bought  the  new,  'cause  Huldy  Bartlett, 
she's  the  president  of  the  Sewin'  Society  now, 
looked  out  a  little  large  an'  there  was  consid'- 
ble  of  a  piece  left.  It's  red  and  green,  with  sort 
of  a  di'mon '-shaped  figger  'bout  's  big  over  's 
yer  hand.  We  had  a  strip  of  stair  carpetin' 
left  over  when  we  carpeted  our  front  stairs,  so 
I  tacked  that  down  in  our  pew.  Aunt  Priscilla 
Fogg  's  got  a  han'some  piece  of  rag  carpet  on 
hern.  You  know  she  weaves  it  for  folks.  An 
nette  Walker  hooked  in  a  piece  for  their  pew. 
She's  a  master  hand  for  hooked-in  rugs.  Polly 
Cotton  made  their  carpet  out  o'  fine  braids, 
shaded  like  a  rainbow.  It's  a  beauty.  An'  Ju 
dith  embroidered  covers  for  the  crickets.  They 
said  they  hadn't  be'n  int'  the  meetin '-house 
sence  their  mother  was  buried,  nine  year  ago 
last  December,  but  they  wanted  their  pew  fixed 
up.  It  's  used  to  seat  strangers  in,  an'  time  of 
funerals  it's  most  gin 'ally  needed  for  the  mourn 
ers.  I  hain't  told  ye  'bout  the  present  we  had 
of  a  great  sofy  an'  two  chairs  for  the  pulpit," 
said  Mandy,  stopping  to  thread  her  needle. 


Nathan's  Wife.  91 

' '  Of  all  things !  Who  'n  the  world  gin  them  ? ' ' 
was  the  response. 

"Can't  you  remember  Angeline  Page  an'  her 
mother,  that  uster  live  in  the  old  Eph'ram  Jewitt 
house?  Angeline  was  a  great  scholar,  an'  went 
down  in  the  state  o'  Maine  to  keep  school.  She 
married  a  widower  down  there  by  the  name  o' 
Stickney,  an'  made  out  uncommon  well,  though 
he  was  old  'nough  to  be  her  father  an'  had  the 
lung  diffikilty  for  a  number  o'  years.  Mis'  Page 
died  there  an'  was  fetched  up  to  this  yard, 
'cordin'  to  her  request,  an'  laid  'long  side  of  her 
husband.  Now  Mr.  Stickney  's  be  'n  taken  away, 
but  he'd  made  his  will  so  't  the  heft  o'  the 
prop'ty  went  to  Angeline,  an'  she's  wealthy. 
Huldy  Bartlett  heard  'bout  it — I  tell  you  that 
woman  hain't  left  no  stone  unturned — so  she 
writ  down  an'  told  Angeline  that  the  meetin'- 
hotise,  where  she  uster  go,  was  bein'  fixed  up,  an' 
asked  her  if  she  wouldn't  like  to  help  us  out  a 
little,  thinkin'  we'd  git  a  couple  dollars,  mebbe. 
You  c'n  imagine  how  struck  up  everybody  was 
when  that  han'some  pulpit  set  come,  straight 
from  a  down  East  furniture  shop.  Angeline 
gin  it  in  mem'ry  of  her  mother, — the  old  lady 
belonged  most  fifty-nine  year. 

I  jes'  wisht  you  c'd  come  up  some  Sunday  an' 
see  'f  you  don't  think  our  house  looks  complete, 


92  Nathan's    Wife. 

but  't  wouldn't  never  do  for  you  to  leave  your 
own  meetin'.  'T would  be  sure  to  make  talk  if 
folks  sh'd  see  you  runnin'  off  up  to  the  Ortho 
dox.  They'd  think  you'd  taken  a  miff  at  suthin. 
Let  me  see !  I  declare !  if  it  ain  't  our  turn  to 
have  the  meetin'  Fast  day.  Then  '11  be  your 
chance." 

"When  be  your  folks  calc 'latin'  ter  have  that 
levee  come  off?"  asked  Mrs.  Marston. 

"Next  Wednesday  night.  They've  got  the 
bills  all  out,"  replied  Mandy,  tying  a  knot  and 
waxing  the  thread  to  commence  her  last  shoe. 
"Huldy,  she's  worked  early  'n'  late.  It  does 
beat  all  what  some  folks  '11  do  'f  they  c'n  be 
cap'n.  Fer  my  part,  I'd  ruther  train  as  a  privit. 
They've  got  a  sight  o'  pin-cushions,  tidies  an' 
lamp-mats  for  the  fancy  table.  Then  they're 
goin'  ter  have  a  grab-bag.  Huldy 's  sot  on  havin' 
the  album  quilt  sold  by  tickets,  but  the  new  min 
ister  don't  jest  approve.  He  says  it's  too  much 
like  the  ways  o'  the  world.  Huldy  's  bound 
to  put  it  through,  though,  an'  I'm  'fraid  they'll 
git  all  by  the  ears  'fore  it 's  over. ' ' 

"You  like  this  new  man  an'  his  fam'ly  mid- 
dlin'  well,  I  s'pose, "  said  Mrs.  Marston. 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply.  "Them  that's  good 
judges  thinks  he  preaches  excellent  discourses, 
but  he  hain't  so  'greeable  a  way  with  him  's 


Nathan's   Wife.  93 

some.  Them  that  takes  like  hot  cakes  at  fust, 
though,  hain't  al'ays  the  ones  't  wears  best  in 
the  long  run.  His  wife  's  more  of  a  sociable 
turn,  but  she  in  joys  dretful  pore  health.  The 
daughter  's  very  'complished.  She  makes  hair 
wreaths,  wax  work,  worsted  flowers  and  all  sich. 
Judith  said  she  didn't  know  but  you'd  think  she 
was  smart  'nough  for  Nathan,  if  she  was  only  a 
Baptist." 

"I  guess  he  hain't  sufferin'  fer  no  sich  folde- 
rols,  an'  when  I  hain't  able  to  take  keer  on  him, 
he's  capable  o'  doin'  his  own  s'lectin',"  quickly 
retorted  the  irritated  mother. 

"Now  reely,  Mis'  Marstin,  wouldn't  you  like 
ter  have  Nathan  git  him  a  good  wife  ? ' '  persisted 
Mandy.  "Of  course,  there  hain't  nobody 
'round  here,  though,  that  you'd  want." 

"Gals  ain't  good  fer  nothin'  now  days.  All 
they  wants  is  to  dress  up  an'  gad.  I  wish  to 
goodness  Nathan  'd  come.  Where  d'  you  s'pose 
he  is?  Here  't  is  most  dark." 

"So  't  is  an'  I  must  clip  it  home,  for  I've  got 
to  bile  pertaters  an'  fry  meat  for  supper.  Sim 
works  out  'n  the  wind  so,  it  makes  him  awful 
hearty.  He  will  eat  half  a  mince  pie  tonight, 
then  want  a  dish  of  apples  'fore  bed  time.  It's 
all  of  a  glare  of  ice  out  here  by  your  fore-door. 
I  guess  it  dreeps  down  where  the  snow  melts  off 


94  Nathan's    Wife. 

the  roof.  I  come  within  one  o'  goin'  my  whole 
length." 

"Now  don't  stay  away  so  long  ag'in,"  said 
Mrs.  Marston  wearily  as  her  visitor  departed, 
and  soon  she  fell  asleep. 

A  little  later  Nathan  came  in,  and  finding 
his  mother  sleeping  soundly  did  not  disturb  her, 
but  quietly  replenished  the  fire  and  set  the  tea 
kettle  boiling,  for  his  many  years  of  experience 
in  helping  about  the  house  had  made  him  as 
handy  as  a  girl.  Then  he  drew  off  his  boots  to 
warm  his  feet  on  the  stove  hearth,  disclosing  a 
large  hole  in  the  toe  of  his  left  stocking. 

' '  Oh.  dear, ' '  he  thought,  quickly  drawing  back 
his  burned  foot,  ' '  how  I  do  need  a  wife !  I  hate 
to  say  anything  to  mother  about  it,  though,  it 
always  makes  her  feel  so  bad,  and  sometimes  sets 
her  into  the  palpitation." 

Then  he  called  to  mind  the  long  talks  they 
had  had  on  the  subject,  how  every  available  girl 
in  that  vicinity  had  been  discussed,  but  the 
mother  had  some  serious  objection  to  each  one. 
There  was  one  girl,  however,  of  whom  Mrs.  Mars- 
ton  had  not  heard.  One  evening,  the  winter  be 
fore,  Nathan  had  covered  himself  with  glory  in 
winning  the  debate  at  the  lyceum.  A  new,  yet 
strangely  familiar  face  in  the  audience  had  in 
spired  him  to  do  his  best.  At  the  conclusion  of 


Nathan's  Wife.  95 

the  exercises,  a  nice-looking  young  lady  stepped 
out  from  a  settee  near  the  front,  saying  she 
wished  to  congratulate  him,  and  also  to  thank 
him  for  his  kindness  to  a  forlorn  little  girl  at  a 
Sunday-school  picnic  many  years  ago.  He 
looked  at  the  wavy  hair  and  into  the  blue  eyes 
and  said,  "It  must  have  been  little  Cora  Has 
tings."  Then  they  recalled  the  circumstances, 
how  Nathan  had  gone  alone  that  day,  and  Mrs. 
Sylvester  Hastings,  who  was  busy  setting  the 
tables,  had  asked  him  to  look  after  a  little  niece 
of  hers.  Her  brother,  she  said,  had  left  the  child 
with  her  for  a  day  or  two  while  he  attended  to 
some  business  in  the  next  town,  and  that  the 
little  girl  had  lost  her  mother  only  the  week 
before  and  was  very  lonely.  Cora  remembered 
how  Nathan  had  framed  houses  for  her  out  of 
slender  twigs  and  swung  her  in  the  swing,  and 
told  her  that  he  was  fourteen,  just  twice  as  old 
as  she ;  then  wisely  explained  that  it  would  not 
always  be  so,  that  the  next  year  and  all  the  years 
after  he  would  be  only  seven  years  older  than 
she.  That  good,  kind  boy  Cora  never  forgot, 
and  Nathan  had  always  cherished  in  memory  the 
little  girl  with  the  long  yellow  curls.  Once  he 
had  mustered  up  courage  to  ask  Mrs.  Hastings 
what  had  become  of  her  niece  and  had  learned 
that  she  had  a  step-mother,  who  didn  't  know  how 


96  Nathan's    Wife. 

to  get  along  with  children  very  well,  so  she  had 
gone  to  live  with  her  grandmother.  After  all 
these  years  she  was  at  her  aunt's  again  for  a 
short  visit.  Nathan  had  called  on  her  there,  and 
they  had  corresponded  during  the  past  year. 
Now  the  grandmother,  having  recently  died,  the 
aunt  had  invited  her  niece  to  come  to  her  home 
for  a  while,  and  it  was  in  Aunt  Mary  Hastings' 
parlor  with  Cora  that  Nathan  had  spent  the  most 
of  his  afternoon  at  the  village.  A  glorious  after 
noon  it  had  been,  for  Cora  had  promised  some 
time  to  be  his  wife.  How  to  break  the  news  to 
his  mother  puzzled  him  sorely,  but  Cora  had 
said,  ' '  It  has  all  seemed  so  providential  so  far,  we 
will  trust  Providence  for  the  future." 

The  Marston  house,  which  was  situated  about 
a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  village,  was  a  large, 
old-fashioned,  two-story  farm  house,  painted  red. 
Mrs.  Marston,  a  frail  looking  little  woman,  now 
in  her  seventy-second  year,  had  long  been  a 
widow,  living  in  the  old  home  with  her  only 
child,  Nathan,  now  a  bachelor  of  thirty-five,  a  lit 
tle  gray  and  somewhat  bald. 

The  son  felt  that  he  must  bring  home  a  wife 
soon,  but  how  was  he  ever  to  reconcile  his  mother 
to  a  change  in  the  household.  Cora  was  a  Bap 
tist  and  that  would  go  a  long  way  with  her.  In 
the  dim  twilight  he  sat  warming  his  feet  and 


Nathan's   Wife.  97 

thinking  the  matter  over  until  his  mother  awoke. 
Then  Nathan  lit  the  lamp  and  displayed  all 
the  little  packages  that  he  had  brought  from  the 
store,  saying,  "Here's  your  Watchman  and  Re 
flector,  too,  that  came  today, — but  how  hoarse 
you  are !  Has  anybody  been  here  1 ' ' 

"Yes,  Mandy  Downcs  run  over,  but  I  let  her 
do  most  o'  the  talkin'." 

"Well,  you  generally  have  to  do  that.  When 
she's  wound  up  she'll  go  like  an  eight-day 
clock,"  said  Nathan.  "She  told  you  all  the  news, 
I  s'pose." 

"Lor',  yes,  she  was  chock  full  on  't.  Ye 
might  jes'  reach  me  the  camphire  bottle  on  the 
top  shelf  of  the  cupboard  there,  'f  ye  will. ' ' 

And  Nathan,  as  he  complied  with  his  mother's 
request,  said  to  himself,  "There's  one  choice  bit 
of  news  that  even  Mandy  hain't  got  hold  of 
yet," 

Mrs.  Marston  complained  of  feeling  chilly 
and  aching  all  over,  so  she  said,  "I  guess  I'll 
take  suthin  hot  an'  put  a  mustard  plaster  on 
the  back  of  my  neck,  then  I'll  go  off  ter  bed. 
I'll  have  some  hot  rocks  ter  my  feet,  an'  an 
extry  tuek  on  top  o'  my  coverlid  so  's  ter  sweat 
me,  an'  mebbe  I  c'n  sleep  it  off  an'  feel  middlin' 
smart  in  the  mornin'." 

So  Nathan  made  hot  ginger  tea,  spread  the 


98  Nathan's   Wife. 

mustard  paste  and  heated  the  soapstones,  for  he 
was  used  to  this  program.  Afterwards  he  got 
his  own  supper,  did  the  chores  and  read  the 
paper,  then,  as  his  mother  seemed  sleeping 
quietly,  he  went  to  bed. 

The  next  morning,  however,  Mrs.  Marston  was 
much  worse.  "Oh,  dear  me!"  she  moaned.  "I 
never  see  the  beat  on  't,  but  seems  's  if  I  couldn  't 
lift  my  head  from  my  piller,  if  't  was  ter  save 
me.  I  do'  know  but  I  'm  in  fer  a  run  o'  lung 
fever.  I  guess,  Nathan,  yer  'd  best  run  right  over 
ter  Downses  'fore  Sim  gits  off  ter  the  village, 
an'  have  him  leave  word  fer  the  doctor  ter  come 
up.  I  hate  ter  give  up  an'  have  a  doctor,  seems 
's  if  folks  is  sure  ter  be  sick  'f  they  do,  but 
the  old  doctor  al'ays  had  the  name  o'  not  goin' 
more  'n  he  was  needed,  even  where  the  pay  was 
good." 

When  Doctor  John  came  he  pronounced  Mrs. 
Marston  a  very  sick  woman,  and  said  that  a  good 
nurse  must  be  found  for  her  immediately ;  he 
hardly  knew  where  to  look  for  one,  they  were 
all  so  busy  just  now,  but  Nathan  instantly 
thought  of  Cora. 

Mandy  Downes  had  come  over  and  would  stay 
until  they  could  get  some  one,  so  leaving  her  to 
sit  by  his  mother,  Nathan  hurried  away  to  the 
village,  and  did  not  have  much  difficulty  in  per- 


Nathan's  Wife.  99 

suading  Cora  to  return  with  him.  Her  grand 
mother  had  been  an  invalid  for  several  years,  so 
she  had  had  some  experience  in  sickness.  As 
they  approached  the  old  red  house  Cora  re 
marked,  "Well,  Providence  has  brought  me  to 
your  home  sooner  than  we  expected." 

"I  Ve  got  you  a  good  nurse,  mother,"  said 
Nathan,  as  the  two  entered  her  room,  and  she 
was  too  sick  to  ask  any  questions. 

Such  excellent  care  did  Cora  take  of  her  pa 
tient  that  she  was  carried  safely  through  a  se 
vere  illness,  and  her  recovery,  so  Doctor  John 
told  her,  was  due  to  good  nursing. 

One  day,  after  Mrs.  Marston  was  strong 
enough  to  sit  up  for  a  half  hour  in  her  chintz 
covered  rocker,  rolled  up  in  a  patchwork  com 
fortable,  she  said  to  Nathan,  when  the  nurse  had 
left  the  room,  "Now  'f  ye  c'd  git  sich  a  gal  's 
Cora  fer  a  wife  I  sh'd  be  satisfied,  but  o'  course 
ye  hain't  never  tho't  on  't.  I  s'pose  she  makes 
good  pay  a-nussin',  an'  like  'nough  she  don't 
want  ter  git  married,  but  most  on  'em  does,  if 
they  gits  a  chance." 

"You  really  think  she  'd  make  a  good  wife, 
an'  wish  I  'd  say  something  to  her  about  it, 
then?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  old  lady,  "or  mebbe  I  c'd 
hint  'round  an '  find  out  if  she  's  got  a  feller.  I 


100  Nathan's   Wife. 

hain't  no  match-maker,  though,  an'  never  was, 
fer  I  don't  hold  to  it." 

The  next  afternoon,  when  Mrs.  Marston  had 
taken  a  good  nap,  and  Cora  had  Nathan's  stock 
ings  all  neatly  darned  and  was  looking  for  some 
thing  else  to  do,  Mrs.  Marston  said,  ' '  Right  there 
in  my  under  drawer  ye  '11  find  a  sheet  that  I 
laid  by  ter  turn  that  very  week  't  I  come  down 
sick.  Ye  may  have  that  job  'f  ye  want  it.  It  's 
sort  o'  pretty  work  though,  when  ye  don't  feel 
hurried."  Then  to  herself  she  added,  as  Cora 
began  the  long  over  and  over  seam,  "Now  I 
must  try  an'  see  how  the  land  lays." 

An  hour  later,  when  Nathan  came  in  to  stay 
while  the  nurse  went  out  for  a  walk,  he  was  told 
the  result  of  the  investigation.  "I  as't  her  how 
she  'd  injoyed  herself  here,  an'  'f  she  did  n't 
kind  o'  hate  ter  go  off,"  began  the  mother,  "an' 
I  don't  b'lieve  she's  a-hankerin'  much  fer  ter 
go  home.  I  cal'late  there  hain't  no  love  lost 
'twixt  she  'n'  her  step-mother.  Folks  calls  her 
an  awful  pious,  good  woman,  but  Cory  got  sot 
ag'n'  her  when  she  was  a  child,  'cause  she  cut 
off  her  long  curls  that  her  own  mother  was  so 
proud  on,  for  fear  they  was  makin'  of  her  vain 
an'  worldly-minded.  Her  pa  thinks  the  sun 
rises  an'  sets  in  his  wife,  an'  that  puts  me  in 
mind  o'  what  Aunt  Betsey  Scruton  uster  say, 


Nathan's  Wife.  101 

'A  mother  's  a  mother  all  the  days  of  her  life, 
an'  a  father  's  a  father  till  he  gits  a  second 
wife.'  He  hain't  done  for  her  none,  late  years, 
an'  there  wa'n't  no  call  't  he  should,  fer  the  ole 
lady  was  fore-handed,  an'  now  Cory  gits  it  all. 
She  owned  up  that  there  was  a  feller  't  she 
thought  a  sight  on,  but  there  was  reasons  why 
they  could  n't  git  married  jest  yit.  I  should  n't 
want  ter  resk  it  ter  have  ye  come  in  between  'em, 
fer  sich  things  ain't  right,  an'  ye  would  n't 
never  prosper." 

"That  won't  be  necessary,  mother,"  calmly 
remarked  Nathan,  "for  I  'm  the  man  she  loves, 
an'  she  promised  to  be  my  wife  two  months 
ago." 

"Why,  for  pity's  sake!  What  do  ye  mean? 
An '  ye  never  told  me  on  't ! " 

"No,  I  was  wonderin'  how  I  was  ever  goin' 
to  break  the  news  to  you,  when  you  were  taken 
sick,  but  I  was  sure  you  'd  like  Cora  if  you  only 
knew  her. ' ' 

"Yes,  she  's  all  right,  bless  her  heart!  But  I 
dew  declar'  I  never  was  so  taken  a-back  in  all 
my  life." 

When  Mrs.  Marston  fully  realized  the  fact 
that  Cora  Hastings  was  to  be  the  daughter  con 
cerning  whom  she  had  had  so  many  years  of 
anxiety,  she  could  hardly  wait  for  the  wedding 


102  Nathan's    Wife. 

day,  so  Elder  Hunkins  came  over,  and  there  was 
a  quiet  wedding  in  the  old  lady's  room,  just  as 
soon  as  she  was  able  to  be  dressed  in  her  black 
silk  gown  and  best  cap.  The  stuffed  haircloth 
rocking  chair  had  been  shoved  in  from  the  par 
lor  for  the  occasion,  and  in  it  she  sat  in  state, 
with  a  pillow  behind  her  head. 

Nathan  and  his  wife,  one  afternoon,  a  few 
weeks  later,  overheard  their  mother  talking  to 
Mandy  Downes,  who  was  a  little  hard  of  hear 
ing:  "Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Marston,  "  't  was  well 
wuth  that  hull  fit  o'  sickness,  the  doctor's  bill 
an'  all,  ter  have  the  pickin'  out  o'  Nathan's 
wife,  an'  ter  have  one,  that  I  couldn't  'a'  bet 
tered  if  I  'd  had  her  made  ter  order,  step  right 
in,  so  's  't  I  could  git  acquainted  with  her  be 
forehand.  ' ' 


MISS  HARDEN 'S  CHRISTMAS  PARTY. 

"Wall,  if  it  don't  beat  all!"  muttered  Rachel 
Dudley,  as  she  basted  the  turkey.  "Me  a-gittin' 
up  a  Christmas  dinner  fer  newsboys,  bootblacks 
an'  sich  to  eat  right  here  in  our  dinin'-room! 
I  've  be'n  cook  in  this  fam'ly  goin'  on  twenty 
year,  an'  I  never  see  the  likes  o'  this.  I  wonder 
what  Miss  Janet's  mother  would  say,  if  she  was 
alive.  She  was  dretful  tony,  the  ole  lady  was, 
an '  so  's  Katherine,  but  land !  Miss  Janet,  she  's 
all  Harden,  no  more  like  her  mother  than  black 
's  like  white.  I  s'pose  all  this  comes  'long  o' 
her  gittin'  so  int'restid  in  them  mission  folks." 

For  all  her  grumbling  Rachel  was  devoted  to 
her  mistress,  and  was  determined  that  this 
Christmas  dinner  should  equal  any  that  she  had 
prepared  before.  The  dining-room  was  dec 
orated  with  festoons  of  green  and  holly  wreaths 
hung  in  the  windows.  The  table  sparkled  with 
silver  and  cut-glass;  a  large  hothouse  bouquet 
stood  in  the  center  and  there  were  carnation 
pinks  at  every  plate.  Rachel  had  just  set  on 
the  platter,  containing  the  huge  turkey,  beauti 
fully  browned,  when  heavy  footsteps  sounded 


104     Miss  Harden's  Christmas  Party. 

on  the  stairs.  The  door  was  thrown  open,  and 
the  rich  aroma  of  the  turkey,  mingled  with  the 
scent  of  the  celery  and  the  flowers,  greeted  the 
guests,  who  gazed  at  the  table  iu  open-mouthed 
wonder. 

"Oh,  posies!"  whispered  the  little  lame  girl 
to  her  grandmother. 

' ' Han 'k 'ch 'ef s  't  every  place!"  said  tiny  Tim 
Tucker  to  Billy  Sykes. 

"Them  's  bibs,  you  greeny,  I  've  seed  'em  a- 
wearin'  'em  in  't  the  big  rest 'runts, "  returned 
Billy,  who  had  been  a  newsboy  for  more  than  a 
year,  and  knew  the  ways  of  the  world. 

Poor  Jimmie  Bird,  the  deaf  and  dumb  boy, 
so  far  forgot  himself  that  he  stood  on  his  head 
just  for  a  minute,  and  was  covered  with  confu 
sion  when  Tom  Mills,  the  bootblack,  hastily  re 
versed  him. 

Then  came  the  Dawson  girls,  stiff  and  awk 
ward;  their  mother  had  kept  their  hair  in  curl 
papers  for  two  days,  and  had  decked  them  out  in 
some  bits  of  finery,  treasured  relics  of  her  maid 
enhood.  As  they  sat  down  at  the  table  Sarah, 
the  younger  one,  jarred  her  dish  of  cranberry 
sauce  so  that  a  little  of  the  juice  spilled  over  on 
the  tablecloth.  This  frightened  her  so  that  she 
began  to  cry,  and  appealed  to  her  sister,  saying, 
"Lem  me  hev  the  han'k'ch'ef  now,  Ellen;  marm 


Miss  Hardens  Christmas  Party.     105 

said  I  sh'd  kerry  it  half  the  time,  an'  you've 
had  it  ever  sence  we  started." 

The  little  lame  girl  sat  on  one  side  of  Miss 
Harden,  and  her  grandmother  on  the  other. 
"Do  you  like  turkey,  Gracie?"  asked  Miss  Har 
den,  as  she  generously  helped  the  child. 

"Never  had  none  's  I  knows  on,"  smilingly 
answered  Gracie,  but  Grandma  Harris  thought 
of  the  days  of  the  long  ago,  when  she  was  the 
hired  girl  in  a  large  farm-house,  where  she  had 
often  dressed  the  Thanksgiving  turkey. 

When  the  celery  was  passed  "Tiny  Tim" 
stuck  his  piece  in  his  button-hole  with  his  pinks, 
but  felt  he  had  done  something  wrong  on  ac 
count  of  the  peculiar  grin  on  the  face  of  Billy 
Sykes,  who  slyly  whispered,  "They  eats  that 
bokay,  Tim!" 

Grandma  Harris  was  as  pleased  as  a  child 
when  in  her  own  plate  she  saw  the  lucky  bone, 
and  she  told  the  children  how  they  used  to 
wish  over  it  and  break  it,  when  she  lived  at  the 
farm. 

Turkey  and  vegetables,  pudding  and  pies  van 
ished  like  dew  before  the  sun.  Never  had  the 
little  folks  from  the  mission  eaten  such  a  dinner, 
and  then  their  plates  were  heaped  with  fruit. 

All  was  still  when  something  dropped  with  a 
sharp  sound,  causing  the  children  to  giggle,  for 


106     Miss  Harden's  Christmas  Party. 

they  knew  that  Jimmie  Bird  had  lost  off  a  but 
ton. 

"Seems  to  me  them  grapes  looks  poorty 
green,"  thought  Grandma  Harris;  "they  was 
al'ays  sort  o'  purple  when  they  was  fit  to  eat 
out  to  the  farm. ' '  But  when  once  she  had  tasted 
the  delicious  white  grapes  her  fear  that  they 
were  not  ripe  quickly  vanished.  Just  then  Miss 
Harden  noticed  Tim  Tucker  struggling  with  his 
jacket  pocket  into  which  he  was  trying  to 
squeeze  an  orange  which  was  much  too  large 
for  it. 

"I  hain  't  a-swiping  nothin',"  explained  Tim, 
"I  jes'  thought  I  'd  kerry  my  orange  home  to 
Aunt  Clarry,  'cause  her  's  awful  good  to  me. 
Her  let  me  lay  in  Johnny's  bed  all  day  yister- 
day,  while  her  washed  my  clo'es  so  's  't  I  could 
come  to  yer  party.  Johnny  's  Aunt  Clarry 's 
little  boy,  on'y  he  's  dead.  I  guess  't  '11  go  in 
when  it  's  squozed  a  little  more,"  said  he,  ap 
plying  his  lips  to  the  orange  again. 

Miss  Harden  urged  her  guests  to  eat  all  they 
could,  and  promised  that  each  one  should  have 
a  box  of  goodies  to  take  home,  so  Tim  finished 
his  orange.  Then  they  all  went  back  to  the  par 
lor  and  Miss  Harden  played  on  the  piano,  and 
the  children  sang  the  songs  they  had  learned  at 
the  mission;  after  the  singing  they  joined  in  a 


Miss  Har  den's  Christmas  Party.     107 

peanut-hunt,  and  Gracie  Harris  found  the  most, 
so  she  received  the  prize — a  pretty  book  of 
Christmas  stories.  While  they  were  gathered 
around  Gracie  looking  at  the  pictures,  suddenly 
the  great  folding-doors  opened  and  revealed  a 
splendor  that  dazzled  the  eyes  of  all. 

A  jolly,  fat  old  man,  with  a  very  red  face  and 
a  long  white  beard  came  forward,  and  Miss  Har 
den  introduced  him  as  her  friend,  Santa  Glaus, 
who  had  brought  one  of  his  Christmas  trees,  the 
fruit  of  which  always  ripened  on  the  twenty- 
fifth  of  December. 

The  tree  was  bright  with  lighted  tapers  and 
sparkling  with  tinsel.  Among  the  branches 
peeped  out  books  and  pictures,  dolls,  drums,  tops 
and  jumping-jacks,  while,  dropped  like  wind 
falls,  on  the  chairs  beneath  were  jackets  and 
caps,  shoes  and  hoods.  Besides  candy,  toys  and 
books,  each  one  received  just  the  things  he  or 
she  most  needed.  Grandma  Harris  had  some 
nice,  warm  flannels.  She  had  patched  her  old 
ones,  she  said,  "till  there  wa'n't  much  left  ter 
patch  to. ' '  The  Dawson  girls,  who  had  expected 
to  wear  their  old  straw  sailor  hats  all  winter, 
were  made  happy  by  the  possession  of  jaunty 
tarn  o'  shanters,  but  what  delighted  them  most 
was  a  beautiful  handkerchief  apiece — "A  han'- 
k'ch'ef  with  an  open-work  border  an'  scollups 


108     Miss  Ear  den's  Christmas  Party. 

all  round  the  aidge!  Han'somer  'n  marm's  ever 
was!"  exclaimed  Ellen. 

Jimmie  Bird  was  presented  with  a  new  jacket, 
which  he  sadly  needed,  for  the  one  that  he  wore 
was  very  old  and  had  dropped  its  last  button  at 
the  dinner  table. 

' '  A  business  outfit  for  Tom  Mills,  and  may  he 
ever  shine  like  the  noonday  sun,"  said  Santa 
Glaus,  as  he  handed  a  big  box  to  Tom,  who  im 
mediately  began  to  investigate  the  contents,  try 
ing  the  brushes  and  counting  the  boxes  of  black 
ing.  "It's  jest  a  daisy  of  a  kit!"  said  he.  "My 
old  one  was  second-hand,  anyhow,  an'  it  's  'bout 
gone  up,  an'  I  did  n't  know  how  I  was  ever 
a-goin '  ter  scare  up  another. ' ' 

How  Billy  Sykes'  eyes  shone  when  he  was 
given  a  pair  of  stout  shoes!  By  dint  of  extra 
hustling  and  crying  his  "Herald,  Globe,,  or  Rec 
ord!"  until  he  was  as  hoarse  as  a  frog,  Billy  had 
managed  to  earn  enough  so  that  he  felt  justified 
in  squandering  a  few  pennies  on  a  cake  of  soap, 
which  he  had  promised  that  morning  to  "divvy" 
with  Tom  Mills  for  a  shine.  Tom  had  accepted 
the  proposition,  making  "no  extra  charge,"  he 
said,  for  blacking  Billy 's  toes,  so  that  they  would 
not  show  so  plainly  sticking  up  through  the  holes 
in  his  old  shoes. 

"Tiny  Tim,"  who  had  come  with  a  little  rag- 


Miss  Harden's  Christmas  Party.     109 

ged  scarf  tied  over  his  head,  was  given  a  warm 
cap  and  a  pair  of  mittens. 

Although  Gracie  and  her  grandmother  had 
had  the  honor  of  riding  to  the  party  in  Miss 
Harden 's  fine  carriage,  the  little  girl  had  been 
obliged  to  make  her  appearance  wrapped  in  an 
old  faded  shawl,  cherished  in  memory  of  her 
dead  mother.  When  Santa  Glaus  held  out  to 
the  child  a  little  red  cloak  and  hood  she  fairly 
danced  for  joy,  and  clapped  her  hands  until  she 
dropped  one  of  her  crutches,  which  was  picked 
up  and  presented  in  a  most  gallant  manner  by 
Billy  Sykes. 

Then  Santa  Glaus,  making  a  very  low  bow, 
said,  "I  guess  the  fruit  o'  this  'ere  tree  's  all 
picked  an'  I  must  be  a-hurryin'  along  now,  fer 
I  've  got  a  good  many  more  calls  ter  make." 

Soon  Hiram,  the  coachman,  appeared  at  the 
door  with  the  carriage,  and  Billy  Sykes  said  to 
himself,  "Jimminy!  if  that  feller's  voice  don't 
sound  'xactly  like  the  Santa  Glaus  man's!" 
But  none  of  the  others — not  even  Grandma  Har 
ris — -suspected  that  dignified  personage  of  hav 
ing  masqueraded  as  Santa  Glaus. 

It  was  decided  to  put  the  larger  packages  into 
the  carriage  with  the  Harrises,  and  as  the  rest 
started  off  with  their  arms  full  of  presents,  Billy 
Sykes  shouted,  "Three  cheers  for  Miss  Har- 


110     Miss  Harden's  Christmas  Party. 

den!"  and  Tom  Mills,  the  Dawson  girls,  and 
"Tin}-  Tim"  joined  him  in  a  rousing  response. 
Then  Jimmie  Bird,  seeing  what  the  others  were 
doing,  hastened  to  show  his  appreciation  in  the 
best  manner  of  which  he  was  capable ;  so,  drop 
ping  his  bundles,  he  turned  three  somersaults 
and  stood  on  his  head. 

"I  never  expected  ter  live  ter  see  sich  a  day 
as  this!"  said  grandma,  as  she  slowly  got  into 
the  carriage. 

"And  have  you  had  a  good  time,  too,  Gra 
de?"  asked  the  hostess. 

A  sweet  smile  lighted  the  little  pale  face, 
though  tears  were  shining  in  the  deep  blue  eyes. 
"Oh,  Miss  Harden!"  she  said,  "I  did  n't  s'pose 
I  c'd  ever  go  to  heaven  till  after  I  'd  died  first!" 

When  Janet  Harden  went  to  her  room  she 
picked  up  and  re-read  her  invitation  to  the  grand 
reception  which  her  sister  was  holding  in  her 
New  York  home  that  evening.  "  If  I  had  gone, ' ' 
mused  the  practical  Miss  Janet,  "my  dress 
would  have  cost  more  than  I  have  spent  for  all 
those  poor  children,  and  I  know  I  should  n't 
have  enjoyed  Katherine's  reception  half  so  much 
as  my  own, ' '  and  she  smiled  as  she  thought  how 
shocked  her  fashionable  sister  would  have  been 
could  she  have  looked  in  upon  them  that  day. 

Then,  going  to  the  pretty  banner  of  Scripture 


Hiss  Ear  den's  Christmas  Party.     HI 

quotations  and  gems  of  poetry  hanging  on  the 
wall,  she  turned  over  the  leaf  which  she  had  been 
too  busy  to  look  at  before. 

"December  twenty-fifth,"  she  began,  "  'Inas 
much  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least 
of  these/ — why!"  she  exclaimed,  "I  had  n't 
thought  of  that!" 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY 'FACILITY 


A    000  569  454     2 


